Last Night, a poem

Last Night

1:30 a.m., alone, outside,
in the full moon’s light,
in this beloved forest,
I gaze and gaze
into the space, there,
between treetops.
The round disc of light, bright,
draws wordless adoration
of All thus Beautiful.
Night sounds, endless cicadas, frogs,
an owl, rustling leaves,
sleeping and wakeful creatures,
and me breathing,
until sound is one mosquito,
sending me toward the house.
My moonlit shadow,
walking before me,
leans on my cane.
Old woman, in the meadow,
in the dark, in the light,
headed home.

Glenda Taylor, July 4, 2020