Twilight curtains parted
and in grand purple theater
arose a ponderous butterscotch moon.
“Catch me if you can!”
it stage-whispered to my camera,
which sighed in my hands,
and tried, oh, so many times,
noble machine,
but in the end could only stand with me,
groundlings both,
in awed suspension of disbelief.
You may ask, dear reader, if there is anything
that doesn’t remind me of dessert.
I’ve asked that too.
When winter moon laughs,
the sky shimmers
like sequined cloth,
and the trees reach
their paper leaves
to touch the spangles,
and the laughter bubbles
downward
to distant lacy roots.
And then one day
the tree,
filled with moon fizz,
explodes in green.
If I breathe,
will I hurt the air,
will I break the moon,
shatter, tear
this moment
frail, silvern,
when crickets whisper
Chopin nocturne?
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.
The pond as artist
nonpareil
transience its medium
mystery its spell.
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!
And so
with a cold wink of moon
sly thief
pickpocket of the sun
does the earth
with me
welcome solstice.
I love the warmth
of old flannel
the blanket of solitude
swaddling me
in inwardness
as the maple
sleeps.
In feeble imitation
we aspire
in manmade constellation
of bulb and wire
to capture stars
of eons sired.
From night’s black depth
atop vast spire
two hoary lights,
amused, admire.
Thanks yet again to photographer S. W. Berg for this beauty.
And happy birthday to Emily Dickinson!
Evening white
kin to the moon
snowy ember
Delphic rune.
The day closes in layers —
palimpsest first
awaiting tomorrow’s script
inscribed by sandal and toe —
next water, rocking itself
in heavy-lidded blues,
slowing, nodding —
then birds, pulling cloud blanket
tucking in
a yawning world
dimming voices
on edge of dream —
atop, where wisps of day
linger like talcum
a so-distant moon
calls the stars.
Thanks yet again to photographer S.W. Berg.
Oddments 