The moon is pregnant with metaphor.
You look up and see a fingernail
or a benevolent loopy face.
Think of a harvest moon, dark
as pumpkin or winter’s white gold
shifting in and out of gray, hanging
like an ornament in a snow globe.
The delicate spring moon is balanced
in night, a promise lighting copses’
hidden bowers, glowing on whispers,
laughter, yours and yours, a promise
kept in summer in its translucent
descent kissing rivers and ocean,
so full of itself, dancing joy on water,
but it’s shy and unsure, too,
a bumpkin moon sneaking behind
the Sun's skirts, sometimes all the way.
Nothing is so cold as that moment
when it’s blotted away by darkness
or so reassuring as the ever of its return.
We daydream about the cow’s high jump,
the silly dish and spoon eloping,
and we feel safe and sleep or sing
about its glow, how it shines on
because it has to be moonlight
or shadow or some other thing
that it is and isn’t everywhere.
- Add a