at the shrines

Taken on our way back down the mountain;
there was a fairy ring larger than the scope of this picture.

We climb to the top

where all those hopes have lain

under moon after moon,

for eras, continued.

Floating on a sea of light and lives,

A thousand lost voices

reaching for our hands

- the long dead, the new dead, the never dead - 

just want a piece of our time.

The peak at our feet is dark,

lit by white paint in the moonlight:

the path between shrines is 

deep as graves.

~~~

Written at the top of Shrine Hill, as I call it, during our full moon hike, 3 April 2015. The italicized line was spoken by Archer, and inspired the entire poem.

One of the many shrines, before the sun set.

Looking down on our town, at dusk.

~~~

Shared with the real toads, because even though it's not specifically about stars, the starlight was peeking in around the edges.