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Poetry
Wolf Moon
the other night was a howler
but this one is meek as a lamb
quiet and warm by the fire
I see that beady eye rising
through the purpling dusk
scratching its back on
the bare tree branches
nipping off bits of bark
wintertime gathers in
while I toss him a stick
and, appealing to his playful side,
suggest a game of fetch
Who else saw the moonrise last night? I’ve been obsessed with writing full moon poems for a couple of years now. I even have, in my back pocket, a plan to amalgamate them with a crop of other relevant poems into a book; goodness knows if or when this will ever happen.
I suppose that technically I cheated a little, writing this about the moon I saw on Sunday night as opposed to Monday, since on Monday I saw it coming up in all its glory as I pulled out of the airport from picking up my daughter. We watched it for a long time as we sat in traffic that had been stopped by a terrible accident on the highway, while she summarized in detail Tess of the d'Urbervilles, which she read in one breathless gush on her flight out on Friday. But then again, all poetry is at least a teeny tiny bit of a little white lie anyhow: sadly, I have yet to see the moon drop down and cavort in romping, slobbering glee after a thrown stick. Maybe someday. . . . maybe when I get that book finished.
Thank you for reading!
