Somebody once asked me, what is the moon?
Does it feel our pain?
Does it observe stories as one expects it to?
I wish I’d known the answer,
I wish I’d known the truth.
Perhaps it’s filled with woe which preys
upon the heart,
perhaps it’s patron of darkness and things
that vanish with light.
What is the moon?
Perhaps it’s the cry of lovers who mourn
with solicitous night,
perhaps it’s the scent of betrayal
and of blossoms stripped to bloodless white.
Gently, does the sky disclose before whispers
from the dead
intrude, “the moon who you adore
has skeletons in the closet too,
and though dubious be these clouds,
let not mind defer from seeing through.”
The moon is burly wood ecstasy;
a tossed up love letter which we hide from ourselves,
yes I wrote, ‘to what length surreptitious moon,’
little did I know
that merely two years later
I would write a plethora of poems dipped in its light,
absolutely naïve was I,
I knew not ache, nor cry of lovers or what it meant;
perhaps the moon is ever present
part of limb and part of bone, tell me;
how else, how else would my pen have turned from grey
smoke to platinum?
Photo credits: ‘New York Street Moon,’ by Georgia 0 Keeffe
Grace hosts at dVerse and invites us to write a Palinode,
a poem in which a the poet retracts a view or sentiment
expressed in a former poem. Come join us! 💝
Posted for MTB: Palinode @ dVerse Poets Pub