The Eighth Day

I enter my darkening house with
aching feet and a bulging bag
of groceries which I place on a table
before a window overlooking the Sound
and mountains beyond.
Shoes kicked off, coat on a chair,
my eye is caught by the death throes
of a housefly in the corner of the window,
then rises to see a brilliant orange line,
like neon, emerging from
where the Earth drops off.

The fly is soon quiet, its struggle over
and I am part of a vast silence as,
slowly, before me appears
October's moon at the full
like a ripe, shimmering fruit,
pregnant with the seeds of those twins
Beauty and Mystery.

Still as a stone, my breath deep,
I stand as witness to this spectacle
which fills my room with cool fire
as she moves diagonally
across my window,
getting entangled in the branches
of a fir, but not for long.
As I move toward bed, she continues
her journey through the night,
in one window, out the next,
until her brilliance pales
and she vanishes at sunrise.

Unless---she stays a while,
this 'lesser light,' to remind us
that she will return
and that she will be splendid.
Surely, there must have been
an eighth day
for the creation of such
a wanton jewel.

… by Barbara Wolf (2008)