April & Poetry 2

With solo moon in my pocket, I proceed to clean out the closet.  Fickle dresses twist around the shoe rack, and her gypsy gown burrows in his arrow tube.  There’s not much sorrow or longing here, just outgrown shadows, his old yes jeans, and a pair of shoes that once belonged to the Creator.  Entering this closet means entering the zilch dimension.  In this storied space, the first things one might notice are not the empty cabinets, the rising orbs, or all the world's scattered vanitas.   One might notice the holes in those old shoes, holes left by the taking on of burdens and the receiving of gratitude.

(This post written after committing to memory Lisa Russ Spaar's "Solo Moon.")