Thursday, February 9, 2017

Poem: Moonlight, Moons Ago

Moonlight, Moons Ago


The moonlight, many moons

ago, would splash liquid mercury


across the sharpened grass, black

ened from day’s summer sun.


The silver glow would recede, then,

into the farmer’s field, beyond


the barbed-wire fence, where once

I had cut open my head, jumping


through, while trying to catch

an errant cat.   Several moons ( and


several cats) after, the farmer’s

field was plowed under, rutted


into clay and dirt patterns, a

schematic for the cement roads


which foreshadowed houses,

larger than our houses, until


at last, the city finally buried the

memory of the farmer’s field.


But the moon did not forget.

The moon never forgets.


The moon merely pulls back,

recedes, turns away, some would


say “sadly,” a dull grey shadow

against the black asphalt shingles


of houses burned and black

ened from the day’s summer sun.


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