These gray fields under moonlight.

The needles wave, the thick trunks

keep quiet.

Three deer watch us

as if we are their dream.

We hear an owl, maybe.

Cold-faced, we try to imitate,

puckering and testing pitches.

The giant gray space of the sky

fits my face exactly.

We are like color, we say.

Different in different light

and sometimes not here at all.

∞

From the Spring 2013 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 29, No. 2)

© 2013 Peter Blaustein