A Poem
by Ned



Gold on black;
the purple cloak of night
festooned with winking,
trembling, wandering stars.
Soft yellow glow
reflects with love
the orange full moon.
Leaving brief, magical
tails of light
vague shadow lines
against backgrounds
of luminescent sky,
they climb ladders
of our laughter
diving and bobbing
through undersea August air.
Hands reach out
to grasp them,
to see if they
can be touched
held, confined
in jars that smell
vaguely of peanut butter.


But what can be caught,
although beautiful
is always something else,
fragile and dark,
multi-legged, vulnerable,
mundane, in spite of
their unique illumination
The jar, the act
of capture, dissipates
imagination,
sends the holy fleeing,
in wobbling, lazy spirals,
for its life.
We cage them
at the peril
of our souls.
All we can hold,
their ordinariness.