Sometimes the moon is wheeled
from water on a leaf, and the leaf
falls with its light down the curb
where a mouse feels it like a fire
in the claw-nails. Sometimes stars
follow it down the mouse's spine.
Sometimes my grandmother
wheeled her paralyzed cousin Audra
across the long back porch, to catch
the moon rolling through clouds,
or to hear a doe and its fawn jostling
through the garden fence, to feed.
Audra would laugh. And the fawn
would caper sideways through the vines.
That was miracle enough, in moonlight.
© by Clyde Kessler.
Used with the author’s permission.