Photograph by Bill Benzon, poem by Sally Benzon, siblings all.
Words with Neil Armstrong
On the other side
of counting each night
wakened to sunrise,
here is the moment when
the shore by leave of its senses
appreciates being
the vigil: living or dead,
outstanding hands
whose sound in clapping
one by one is the toll
weathered of degrees
deep with listless light.
Somehow the moon,
the moon alone can speculate
how to crystallize
no one’s pictured face
seen in a breezy garden.
Melody calling of us
silent to the salt cast
of our reflections: You bear
seasoned bodies
whose shadows of sound
-- each and every thrall --
delights in tiding
the afterlight. Earthbound.
Forever the leap of moon
is home again. Again.
O mercy! Love! Mercy!
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