Moon at Sunset
The moon turns towards full,
rounded on both sides.
She rose at four today,
crept up over the orange hills.
Now higher in the sky
a slight glint of pink
singing a silent fragile song
stolen by the wind.
If the inside of my skull’s
outside walls were painted
they’d be this non-descript tan
with a name like "Oat[dust" or "Oatmeal Paste."
Ten woodducks live simple lives
on the surface of this small pond,
once a rookery, now baring
no heron nests, no eagle nest,
muskrat home, not a visible beaver’s dam.
Ten wood ducks and a gang of geese
all quietly surrounded by dead cat tails
and the remains of tall reeds hiding homes.
This is the end of the seventh year
I have watched birth and death
cycle through the seasons.
The lives that are left
may stay the winter.
Held up in nests covered in this grass
protected from the winds and ice
until February when the fowl
will begin to return.
My brain is divided between
snuggled up in calm fall sunlight
and leaving home as fast as I can.
Looking for contrast
in blues and greens
of warmer
weather.
I want to run away
seek a new rhythm,
dance again while singing harmony.
Or just enjoy the touch of
the sun low in the sky
shedding its warm rays.
I’m afraid I’m a wood duck
I hear them calling me.
Stay home, be quiet
smile at simplicity
let your life repair.
Comments
Post a Comment