The Third Full Moon in a Season of Four

The gathering storm eats

this true blue moon,

a dry wafer, soft hazy red

against the tin horizon.

It slips like a shining quarter

into a jukebox of cloud,

lingers gleaming in the dark coin slot

while the sad song plays.

We walk on bundled and

stiff like scarecrows into

the blustery November dusk.

We came to watch the full moon rise,

but what seems more pertinent now

is how this diaphanous disk

of sanguine floats pale

and quiet as milkweed seed

on the edge of the wind

and then is gone. There is

something rare yet relevant

in the way it disappears top first

into ambiguous lips of gray,

like the way you pull me

into your love from whatever

sorry spin my mind puts me in.

We tread our rambling path

calling owl and raven,

dizzy from the hordes

of squawking geese

hurtling above our heads.

The leaves crisp from their fall

crackle under our feet.

We have become deeply familiar

with how the rippled lake

smooths itself into evening,

how the shadowed land stretches and

yawns as the sleep of winter nears.

We wonder if the glowing gold eyes

of coyote will follow us into the dark.

There is something amazing,

something intimate and perhaps enduring

in how our footprints freeze in mud.

We have been this way a hundred times

through blistering summer heat and sudden

spring rains. Nothing ever remains,

yet this sunken moment

of our meandering, frosted in

the last blood of sunset,

glimmers as night closes in.


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