I walk home at August moonrise <br />past a bright window. <br />Inside the room <br />an old woman sees the full moon <br />and turns off the lamp. <br />Afterimage shines in my eye: <br />pale face, snowy hair. <br />Moonlight streams over the dark house <br />like cool milk. <br />When the lamp is out, is the woman <br />still standing there alone? <br />In memory, her upraised hand glows; <br />in the house it is darker than shadow. <br />I stand on the sidewalk, <br />moonstruck. <br />Metaphysics of an old lamp: <br />the shade has less meaning <br />than a soul's body. <br />Physics of a window: <br />Glass is thicker than night air, <br />thinner than wonder. <br />The question of whiteness <br />bears looking into. <br />So does a window. <br />Sounds of a moonlight night <br />are softer than rainwater. <br />Before responding to a face <br />at the window, first ascertain whether <br />it's looking out or looking in. <br />Also, whether it's the moon <br />or someone else. <br />None of this, of course, <br />explains the perfumes of August <br />or the way the moon silvers the grass. <br />Turn around and look again- <br />She is still there. <br />The first question has not <br />been answered. What was it?<br /><br />Julie Hill Alger<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/luna-28/
