Ways of Looking at a Full Moon
forest was pale and window-framed.
The moon was hung,
somewhere out of sight.
I wait for [moon knows what] to fall &
break monochrome light,
to fragment murk and cricket screeches.
An old woman shuffles, walks her cat
down the moonlit lane and back.
Five years now,
its sinew and bones tangle with roots
under her flowerbed.
Should I tell her?
I do not want to consign her moon-gray
solace to oblivion.
Are moonlit paths in somber forests
paved with such kind silences?
The moon has a face. I've seen it.
I've seen it change and I have changed
as well. Each dawn's a victory
until the day
one of us does not wake up.
Branches are hung with clouds
like mellifluous lace and loneliness.
All this because the moon
flew over it.
lives in Virginia with her cat and dog. She is passionate about cacti, writing and cultures. She is an aspiring poet.