John Biscello

Running everywhere, wildly, excited

to fill his bucket with moonlight,

the young, eager disicple

turned to his mentor and said,

with a crushing sense of zealous overwhelm–

But it’s everywhere! So so much

yet none of it stays in the bucket.

What do I do?

The mentor smiled softly,

and calmly took the bucket from his disciple’s hands,

and used a saw to cut out the bucket’s bottom,

until there was a gaping hole.

He handed the bucket back to his disciple.

But now it won’t hold anything,

the disciple bemoaned.

Good, the mentor responded cheerily. You had a bucket

designed to carry stuff, to fill up. Yes?

Yes–

How much moonlight did it hold?

None.

Yes, the mentor nodded approvingly. Now hold it up and look through it.

And with that bit of advice, the mentor walked away, whistling a bright melody.

The disciple held the bucket up at an angle,

its aperture perfectly framing

the glittering ancient cinema

of stars

which rendered the disciple

spellbound,

silent,

still,

the lover of ghostlight

that couldn’t be held,

only cherished.