Open Writing

The moon is full tonight, the stillness hurts
so profound it is upon a silvered ground,
yet the homesteads sleep,

so unaware, it makes life's pulse ache
to think such beauty falls only to
a barn owl's blink where the old elms lean

to shade a furrow's sheen; there sleep
the high-flown lark and farther still
argent bluffs echo to a vixen's bark.