The point of a moonbeam, dearest child,” said my mother
“Is a sign to heaven the young alone may follow
And adults never find.”
“Don’t grown-ups go there ever?”
I asked as I reclined at her side on a pillow
Voluptuously drowning, drowsy fingers clutching
At straws of her hair. “I thought only old people died?”
“They do;” she replied. “But the way is found by touching –
And the texture of light is lost to an older mind.”
Persisting, warm in the glow of her skin by lamplight
And eye-wide in the white-bright fronds of the slivered moon:
“Will I go somewhere full of old people?” I asked her,
“And follow a shivery moonbeam – why?”
“Some are called,”
She responded, a mystic gleam in her saddened eye.
“I wouldn’t answer!” Said I.
“Sleep now, child.” The light was
Extinguished as I burrowed deep in the chasms of bed.
Flowing words in the warm like a dream to enclose me.
“Here. This is Heaven for me.” I said.
“Perhaps for you.”
From an outer world her cold voice clattered like pebbles.
“Why is my Heaven always tomorrow?” She wondered.
I lay still in the hollow where my father once slept.
Tomorrow? Would he come, then, tomorrow? We pondered
The unasked question.
“No, nor ever.” My mother said.