the story of angel lace

there is a certain moon

that casts an antique ivory light upon the empty pastures,

an october moon drifting quite contentedly

through a smoldering smoky sky.

the moon that comes in the midst of the last of harvest nights,

a year's work done,

the wheat is in,

the barns are filled,

the dreams of spring fulfilled,

your muscle aching in ways that are somehow deeply good.

it is the sleeping time, the well-earned wages of godly work, well done,

but on this certain night, lit by that certain moon,

you are beckoned by a silent call,

a somehow holy call,

known by souls who work the fields,

to rise and wander into the midnight mist

to cross the farmhouse yard and past the well,

beyond the gate,

and down the lane,

then to the fence

that lines the pasture,

and there while resting boots upon those weathered boards

and while leaning on the well-set sturdy corner post,

to behold the field of whitened gold,

a rustic stage of fallow grass,

then a happening does begin,

the sounds of night,

the crooning crickets, the croaking frogs,

they slowly quiet into an expectant hush,

awaiting the reason for this night

to finally descend,

and descend they do, down a staircase of winding starlight, they come,

one by one,

to take their proper places

in twirls and turns and pirouettes,

these ballerinas, heaven sent,

angelic dancers who move in lightly touching steps,

to grace the earth, the sleeping, weary, well-worked earth of providence,

with moonlit touches of mystic grace,

'tis the harvest dance

the moonlight dance,

danced in gowns of antique ivory lace,

all through the night,

all through the night,

until the last moonlight begins to fly away,

then they must depart,

to their leave for the coming year,

but they leave behind,

as proof that this true,

traces of that ivory lace,

snatched by the pasture grass

of a very grateful earth.

 

 

 

 

The End

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