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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