a fallen tree

dusk air grazes my skin with its beckoning fingers, luring me to the patio to lay parched eyes upon a Third Quarter Moon, marking time. i slip out my glasses to bask in the intricate web of the night; an isolating, unwavering network of energy, patiently brewed for longer than all can recall. fleeing my grasp, this frame braves against the gravel with a deathly rattle to seel joints appense. i cup them between palms and fingers, a warm four walls to nurture what i could not replace it was at this moment i discovered; a crack in my lens a jagged streak coursing from left to right, feathering out into smaller cracks at each end roots and branches of a tree, violently felled by a storm it had no way to prepare for as the Moon wanes, this rupture grows - as if this tree has stolen her mass to use as a fuel dancing and taunting me with specks of stolen moonlight refracting through its thread-like splinters rapidly growing new branches, like wilted arms desperately reaching for something to halt its rotten fate i allow my fingers to glide across the lucky lens the half that remains smooth and useful my clammy hands leave a clouded smudge in its wake the mark of a forbidden sensation. the wicked sprig invite me to feel its crystallized bark who snag the grooves in my finger upon impact the patterned bark now tainted by a sharp red: Karma, for desecrating what was perfect only moments ago fracturing what was once at peace under the Third Quarter Moon.