Moon

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The sun was already setting as the rake scraped the stones on the pathway. I crushed the leaves into the bag and clopped up the driveway, boots crunching small piles of leaves on the pavement.

In the distance, trees painted the sky dusky blue, then slate, then charcoal. In the branches, bushy knots of squirrel nests swayed gently in the cold evening air. Overhead, a half-moon rose through the bare branches of an oak and called to the single star to the South.

A continent lies between you and me. You have your dreams, in your teepee under a thousand stars on the West coast. And I am anchored in the East, in a brick house on a city lot, near a highway.

We are both under the night sky, but we do not see the same moon. You fold your teepee and wander by the light of the moon in a vast starry sky, in a world without end. I plant in a dark moon and nurture the roots in my garden, ever mindful of the boundaries.

In the darkness, a gentle breeze stroked my face. I whispered, "I love you, little nomad," but there was no answer.