The blue moon cast shadows beneath the mahogany,
Swinging in the branches between the dark sky and the horizon,
And, she dared me to open my eyes.
When I did the moonlight had changed everything,
But, I am still dreaming.
Wind chimes were solemn and prolonged,
Polished bronze,
Never quite stopping,
A hyper real undertone,
Intense strings of silver vibrations,
Reverberating and affecting everyone,
Flowing into the vacuum of the electric field,
Into the empty air,
Music of increasing complexity,
Strings tied to the breezes,
Webs tied to the stars,
Nets tied to the cosmic consciousness,
My breath tied to the expanding nebulae.

All of the owls are talking about it.
The curves of the smooth, white flowers,
Are following the moon,
And, tonight the moon is riding high,
In the middle of the sky,
Wearing a lavender halo.
Wisteria flowers behind her ear.

All of the moths and the spotted beetles are talking about it.
Everyone else has closed their eyes.
The unknown has grown,
Is growing, no one knowing,
Where are we going?
Be careful when you open the door.
You don’t want to do that anymore.

Do you want the moonlight to come in?
To bring mysteries and speculations,
Explanations outside of reality?
Would you invite a cloud?
Smoke of an unknown origin?
A nightmare?
Do you want a ghost?
Would you let a rocking chair rock with no one in it?
Walk under a ladder?
Spit at a black cat who has crossed your path?

Do you want to invite in an alien from a parallel universe?
A ferocious force field you don’t understand?
An unexpected time continuum?
A comet from beyond the solar system?
A demon from a Medieval carnival,
With cloven feet and a jesters hat?

Do you want the uncomfortable,
The uncertain,
The uncaring,
The uncontrollable,
The unconscious,
The limbic spirit,
Ready to do anything to survive,
Anything to thrive,
Anything to keep up,
Anything to get ahead,
Free to come and go?
Free as you and me?
Any time?

The moon has grown restless and wild,
And, is trying to claw her way out of the sky.
She is bigger than a dragon’s eye.
The blue hands of the nebulae are reaching out,
Arching, aching, shaking, earth quaking, breath taking,
Embers raking,
What have we been making?
A way out, a way in. A new way to begin again?
Scratching, searching for windows and worm holes,
For protections,
For directions,
For catastrophic detections,
For chaos and confusion, contagion,
And, for the stones,
Which mark the centers of the cities and souls,
And, the seats of power.

I am swinging in the branches of the mahogany,
Under the blue shadows,
Between the dark sky and the horizon,
Affecting everyone.
Getting ready to wake up.
The curves of the smooth, white flowers,
Are following the wind chimes.
Still, the moon refuses to let go,
And, so do I.
All of the cicadas are talking about it.

Soon, I will open my eyes,
And, the dawn will wash me,
And, will, as always, wash also the moon,
As clean and as clear as a silver spoon.