The Harvest Moon

When the clouds fell,

the light seeped away from the windows

and the room became dark.

The fire, a false symbol of hope in the withered home,

flickered out accordingly.

Rain began to patter on the roof

and the lights blinked out slowly.

She sat and stared in front of her,

her eyes not moving from one particular spot,

though that spot was now blackened with a blanket of night.

He, too, sitting in the spot where she stared,

had eyes focused in the darkness where hers were,

so that they were both resting in the black,

watching one another's silhouettes

watch one another's silhouettes.

A child's voice called in the distance.

The rain turned to snow, and his worry turned to fear.

Where was the path?

The animals all scurried into their burrows

and the nightingale let out one last weeping screech before she, too,

disappeared, cowering away from the night.

The child listened for the cry of the river,

but the whisper of water he heard

was only a slit in the Earth

filled with rain

to create a mischievous creek,

its song leading the boy away,

farther,

from his home.

The moon looked down upon its work

and was satisfied

as he saw the dark houses,

forcing sleep onto his exhausted people.

Grief teared at him, though,

as he saw the wandering child.

He hoped the people would continue to sleep,

but he could not escape the need to help the boy.

He widened his eyes

and the forest around the child

was illuminated.

The child realized his wrong wandering

and led himself home,

by the light of the harvest moon.

© 2010