Tuesday, April 7, 2015

at the shrines

Taken on our way back down the mountain;
there was a fairy ring larger than the scope of this picture.

We climb to the top
where all those hopes have lain
under moon after moon,
for eras, continued.

Floating on a sea of light and lives,
A thousand lost voices
reaching for our hands
- the long dead, the new dead, the never dead - 
just want a piece of our time.

The peak at our feet is dark,
lit by white paint in the moonlight:
the path between shrines is 
deep as graves.

Written at the top of Shrine Hill, as I call it, during our full moon hike, 3 April 2015. The italicized line was spoken by Archer, and inspired the entire poem.

One of the many shrines, before the sun set.

Looking down on our town, at dusk.


Shared with the real toads, because even though it's not specifically about stars, the starlight was peeking in around the edges. 

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