Too Distant Moon                     
Alessandra Sillo     

            Dedicated to my mother               
Yellow –
soars deeper and deeper,
into mulberry-scorched depths.

But can He ever touch the Moon?
Without being swept up
and Taken in,
by Wind’s black fingertips?

It’s voice --  
a low, subtle murmur,
scratchy, coarse, familiar –
Stops the sweet-honey cadences,
of friendly, leafless Oaks nearby.

Caught amid Night’s sharp, crusted labyrinth,
Yellow longs for golden streams
of autumn sunlight,
but only sees a glistening, white smile.

He looks into His hard, pointed face,
and asks, “Will I ever be free?”
But, Night only stares and blinks.

Yellow flees,
and continues to fall further into
Fog’s hollow, pitiless abyss.
Just above peaks of trees,
yet bereft of satiety.

All which remains of His voice,
is a mere dry, empty screech;
not hearable to the ears of those
who pass stony-eyed below.

Too distant Moon –
Yellow takes Wind’s velvet hand,
and settles midair.
For the white world
is too far, far away.

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