In song to the moon
at end of day
Robin chirps
his roundelay,
the lyrics rising
plaintively:
What fools, what fools
these mortals be!
OK, dear reader, not all. Not all.
Thanks to Shakespeare for his ever-timely words,
and thanks to Robin for holding still.
Did you see it rise
majestic, slow
serene and massive
transient glow?
So brief a candle
in minutes gone
as night enfolds
with note of dawn.
With thanks to The Bard.
And kudos to the moon for its show last night!
Night light
wind with bite
bitter air
mocking chair
message clear:
don’t sit here.
The ice of contempt
word-borne
(or not)
cuts
like sleet shard/
snuffs thought
in tight cocoon/
enshrouds
the limp remains
of reason/
thriving in cold dark
whimpering wetly
in warm light/
rhinestoned
glittering
hard.
September night
thick-aired, damp,
heavy with weight of day,
slow as prayer
raises the moon
ruddy gold
soon ice white
but,
for this brief Now
of autumn rite,
glowing fermata
over a thousand crickets
piping.
Night lingers
in cobalt shadow
while stars dawdle
on winter’s bones.
Star-bearing elder
tower of green
enwrapped in rainbowed
brigandine
too brief its light
too short its spell
in meaning too
ephemeral.
Every night, dear reader, I look across the pond at my neighbor’s gorgeous old evergreen with its brilliant joyful display of light. My own little tree puffs up in imitation.
