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.