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.