Perfect Moon

One of two short poems written in the midst of a storm, March 2008.

Perfect Moon

a shallow, silver bowl -

holding sky to gently cup.

 

Holy Moon, halo worn

by speeding cloud.

 

While

 

the wind howls at our door

wanting in

to blow and spin

our hair

into knots of dark and light,

red and gold and brown

and gray.

 

But he is out, the wind tonight

and left alone instead to

whip and tangle trees,

old leaves long gone -

and new too young

to be ripped away

 

by such a wild thing.