Moonlight on a Hand

by Joe Bisicchia

Hard the heart that thinks it may never melt.
Hard the open heart that thinks way too much.
The mind is for thinking, the heart for feeling.
Was I in mind, the day the moon was made
and rolled around for its fingerprints a first night?
Was I known by heart?
I haven’t thought of it much, but I linger.

I feel.
I feel like summer is better because of winter.
Somehow there is an open hand to an open hand.
February is the shortest month and yet
lingers so long my digits might just freeze to death
if not for the moon reminding me of day
and all that is felt while being open to sun at night.