They don’t understand

Why he insists on

Isolating himself

And jotting down wisps

Of ideas by light

Of the moon. He tells

Them that he has no

Choice, that he must

Transcribe someone else’s

Plans and make them

His craft

They don’t believe him

Of course. Instead,

They discard the yellowed

Pages of his journals,

Pages with curled corners

And curious scents. They wait

Until he is six feet under

Before they read his careful

Letters. And there, beneath the

Glow of a waning moon

They finally understand


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