The Moon
- autumnal musings on the Four Mile Canyon Fire, 2010
The moon is the moon
whether pale as pumpkin seed
or smoke red. The moon swells,
a plum, it ripens blushing
with sunset or dark as a bruise.
Why bemoan what changes, what spins
the stars into unending darkness? Only what passes
endures, what we hold will be lost.
Flames on wind shriek through trees,
ashes all we possess, and still we go on.
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