Girl and Moon
By Hilary Holladay
She used to lie in bed and look up
at the huge spruce tree
that narrowed like a road
among the stars and moon
and see herself walking that blue path
into the summer night:
A little girl with tumbling hair,
barefoot and in pajamas,
who had come from pine cones,
trumpet vines,
midnight gleam of fireflies.
Her language was the language
of arrowhead and creek bed,
mole hole and snail trail.
She lived among bobwhites and blue jays,
traveling cats with gold coin eyes.
Mornings were spent hopscotching
from the hill of iris
to the valley of cosmos;
Afternoon brought thunderclouds,
rain through the screen, pure gray air.
Then came porch time,
laughter, good-cooking smells.
This is who she was
and where she was from,
and when she finally began her long walk
toward the milky wash of heaven,
she was calm and sure
of the new wonders awaiting her:
The echo of ancient trees.
The moon in her blood.
The sky in her soul.
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