That was me, dancing on a moonbeam
in the dark, after the street lights
had gone on. My mamma kept
calling and calling from the house
but my daddy came outside,
and danced on a moonbeam,
too. We were together
like that, in ways she couldn't be.
How lonely she must have been,
how angry she looked to us,
hollering from behind the screen,
"Daniel, bring that kid in the house!"
Then my daddy tired of trying
to persuade her to join us outside,
swept me up like a feather
on the wind for a moment,
and we were together
like feather and wind.
That was me, dancing on a moonbeam.
I've lost that rhythm, that absolute faith
that all things in the imagination are possible.
My parents divorced when I was thirteen.
My dad died a lonely, broken man.
My mother died a bitter, broken woman.
I wonder what my father thought he was
when I thought he was the wind?
Copyright © Barbara Cotter | Year Posted 2007
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