Nature And Poetry

The Night Sky

Tiny road. Unique house, same height. Cold air chills me, I looked up. There was light, just a scintilla.

Round, bright scintilla: shining it's silver lining, revealing him pure; silhouetted bats and birds flee, wherever, whenever. As each goes by, a wave of clouds, dark and grey, stole the light. Hence, then appeared darkness.

But the moon stayed pure and no hopeless, I felt. Each and every second of possibility, it tried to take a glimpse on us. On Earth.

Still, pitch wont let him. Darkness and light, hope and fear, conflicting, until I saw a bright, dot of white, shimmering. She isnt alone, there stood millions of them. One by one, it was visible.

No,

all is visible.

They buried pitch somewhere.

Now, here, stood I. In the middle of the road, as stars and moon shine upon me.

Yet, I wondered. I mis-included Sun. She isnt here with them, isnt shining upon me. 'Till I realized, she died every night to let him, the moon, breathe.