Winter Blue

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)

Moon, Konishima 1922 (PD-1923)

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