But, Then Again

Jason Ryberg

The moon is grieving

behind a cloud for a star

that has fallen from

universal grace,

and moths are twirling around

the front porch light like

Sufi Dervishes,

and sheets left out all night on

clotheslines in the back-

yard are billowing

like ghosts in the wind, and some-

where, off in the woods - 

the sound of what you'd

swear was a tree suddenly

cracking and falling

under the weight of

all that time and stillness, but

then again, you can't

remember if you've

ever actually heard

a tree fall in the

woods, but you're sure

none of the ghosts you've seen looked

anything like that.