Crescent moon hangs over the field to the south of this house and if I dared to run down and climb over the walls and brambles I might be able to reach up and touch it. I imagine how it might feel on my palms. Would it crumble like a thin-veined blue cheese or coat my skin like almond paste, the kind my mother shaped on Christmas cakes all those years ago? This thought passes quickly because when I go to the window to check and see if the moon is yellow or white, it is gone, far away from my mind and lost in laundry folding and tomorrow's class.
Everything is fleeting. Pages flicked through. A son doing his science study for an exam. The remnants from the meal thrown in the bin. Even by this weekend, the Sumac tree will be semi-naked and I will wonder where the leaves went to. Nothing lasts.
Downstairs the phone rings and I do not run to answer it. The ring recedes. I keep writing but already have forgotten what it is that I set out to write. No one sees me at this desk and no one really cares. Two dogs wait for my attention and a book full of recipes requires my perusal. I have to keep that in mind.
Ten steps from me my son bends to his life. Words fall out of the page and rise up at him or hang in the air like a moon suspended, full of promise, like a bait that keeps him going. Don't look from the page for a minute because if you do it will be gone, like the moon and I wonder if I saw it, that moon at all or did I imagine how the moon would be, cheese, paste, milky substance floating like a dream beyond the window and nothing before it or nothing beyond only a gift that in its impermanence that called me to stop and want for more or nothing more.