I continue to be fascinated by the disparity of the moon’s role in our lives versus in its own existence. It has served as a timepiece by which we have measured months for millennia. But in its own endless orbits, such a measurement seems to have very little meaning.
The Moon and the Road
The young moon smiles and sets. And headlights flash
And pass away up on the road, and all
Is quiet save the distant sigh and fall
Of traffic noise, the road’s own lap and plash.
The young moon smiles an ancient smile at ash
Of months uncounted, burnt by years that crawl
Away behind us like the road, and pall
In the far distance: dart and rush and dash
To fade away at last, and leave that smile
Of knowing on the young moon’s face; the gleam
Inscrutable of those for whom the guile
Of time means nothing. Though the months may seem
To race along the moon’s road, all the while
The moon herself sees time as but a dream.
Next are two haiku about chollas.
A pale green cholla
stands guard above a rabbit
who tiptoes away
The pale-haired chollas
like tousled sleepyheads wake
in the gray morning.
In the empty twigs
look once and again–see it?
one small hummingbird
In the twilight fog
only the pine tree is here
leaning on the fence
I enjoyed the moon and her rascally attitude.
Poem + Moon = WarmHeart