The grass looks softer by moonlight, and seems to wrap the ground like a dim shawl, while the moonlight caresses the fallen leaves decorating it. Tomorrow the sun will be back and again reveal the grass as rough and stubbly and patchy. The sun, like a vampire, will continue to suck the grass ever dryer, until it is utterly desiccated. The fallen leaves protect what they can, giving up their own moisture to the air, and the living leaves give it what shade they still may, but only rain can save the lawn. Until it comes, the soft night provides the grass its only respite, by the cool light of the moon.
Sunday Verse
The Past
by Nin Andrews
If she closed her eyes, she could see it
in the dark room of her mind,
the jukebox of her soul
developing so slowly,
she especially liked the way
he said the word, blouse,
when he unbuttoned her
silk blouse, blue blouse, flowered blouse,
his favorite one was pink
and hung on a green lamp
like a flower on a stem
now that he was gone,
and so was she
and no one lived there anymore,
the town kept lighting up without them
as if it were the first dusk.
