That tinge of light pressing against mist cloud’s
fading silk gown until peeled clean of it—
bare now as reason circled by dark doubt,
reflecting our faces’ glance to covet
hope—is our mystic moon: symbol of our
second chance. How clearly we see compared
to past nights groveling in caves, power
of faith lost in their damp, cramped veins. We’ll spare
details of lies and agony. Suffice
to say we’d hide eyes, terrified of stars,
too weak to even envision moon’s wise
revelation. What guides us now through far
journeys of our own psyches without trace
of fear’s jagged scars? Surely call it grace.
Roger Armbrust
July 21, 2013
