It is late. The moon is out.
I love this time of day when most people are already under the covers, drifting off. I love being awake when everyone else isn't. It's a secret time, when poetry comes flooding through the window and gilds the grass and trees.
Saint Marty is going outside for a little while.
by: Beverly Matherne
Take me up.
Oh, please take me up
the hill, mother.
I want to touch the moon.
See it there, so close, so big?
I want the moon to light me up
the way a firefly does my hand.
I want to put my arms around the moon.