The sky is stained with grass.
The moon is just a sliver
as if light poured out from a circular door left ajar.
I peer in, attempting to see whoever left it open,
but whoever it was
footsteps washed away in the wind.
Is there a keyhole somewhere in the sky
a little hole shaped like an hour glass?
And, how did they find it?
Is the key as long and invisible as patience
the edges of its teeth as crisp as determination?
Is there a sound when the latch lets loose?
Can you push the moon open with one finger,
this door with no hinges?
And, where does the light come from,
beyond the wall of night?
Copyright © Jack Webster | Year Posted 2020
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