The winter of my youth was always blue and vacant.
Dim and neglectful, the sun veiled his secrets,
Forgetting about me – the summer boy.
Instead, the moon was my blue sun.
Funny that the moon shines brighter on a winter’s night,
Than the sun on a winter’s day.
In the day snow is tinted in a powder blue.
But at night the blues are richer, quieter, lonelier.
On those nights,
I would stand in the middle of a field,
A baseball field hidden underneath the snowdrifts.
I stared beyond the thinning film of boyhood into crisp constellations of midnight blue.
I searched to see where my whys would go.
I thought they would find their way to the sun,
Where he was warming the faces of other lost boys like me.
I waited for an answer in the winter blue.
As I looked back at my juvenile footprints in the moonlit snowpack,
Bordered in a blue so restless,
Formed by the weight of my precocious feet,
The unsatisfied prints deepened with each returned why.
Moon, Konishima 1922 (PD-1923)
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