The Gyre

by Barbara Crooker

Last night, the owl woke me; I heard him ask the moon in his rising tremolo, who who who? Unable to sleep, I thought of Monet at eighty, painting waterlilies, pond and sky over 250 times. He said, “These landscapes of water  and reflections have become an obsession for me.” And my compulsive son asks questions without answers ad infinitum in an endless loop: “What time is 12 o’clock midnight? When is it Saturday? Will you marry me all the time? Where is Hurricane  Floyd now? (What does become of a storm once it’s veered out to sea?) Over and over, he pinches,  face, arms, and chest. Monet said, “Each day, I discover things I didn’t see before,” but I lie here wondering how I can get through another day of this. I ask the owl why why why? but he doesn’t reply, and the full moon, that great blank disk in the sky, keeps on shining.

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