Half a moon in the sky, suspended
as an earring from the tree.
And the mind flies to make a perch
out of meaning—
Meaning choices have been made,
between some idea of ornament
and an idea of loss; between the card
of membership and the polite
the faintly vibrating net
electric in the gap. Or
all that will ever remain unsaid.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.