The moon is a blank-faced clock
Its ripe orb the only thing
That pagan man in pre-historic times
Could hang his hat on.
The deep chill of winter began the slow
Rumble of the seasons
The waxing and waning
Of the moon
Etching itself into the everyday.
The tug that set the hens to laying
And the shrimp to drift in on a high spring tide.
The high, sharp-edged disk
That lit up the eyes of a fox on the prowl,
Pups nipping at her heels, pouncing on frogs.
The May moon, anticipated by farmer and poet alike—
The moon to wipe the slate clean,
To slap the palm, sealing the deal of a new year’s agreement.
The warm, lazy moon that enticed lovers into the woods,
And small children into achingly cold mountain streams to catch minnows.
The harvest moon
Slipping silently up through half-naked tree branches
Sealing the coffers for another year.
This is the moon to be beguiled by sweet music, honey wine, and blood.
The powerful moon that holds the thread of life.
If she is not fawned over and appeased
She will slowly, with one eye on the clouds,
Unravel the thread.
I wrote this thinking of the early inhabitants of the island of Ireland, but the moon has resonance for every culture. I would love to hear about yours.
That was lovely. I love to go night hiking or trail running when there is a full moon. I can’t imagine how much ancient people must have appreciated the moon.
Randee, love the idea of trail-running under a full moon. Got to try that one, though I think I’d be looking over my shoulder for the neighborhood bears!
Yes, I happen to live in a place where there are not too many critters. It helps to have the trails right outside town. Be careful!
thanks,we all need to be reminded of mans connection to natures march of time. as adults we are fortunate if we experience 50 or 60 thaws of spring or the freeze of a lake. how many have have passed unremembered? too many. as the number diminishes they become more precious . your thoughts remind me of this. thanks again.
As they say, time waits for no man. Thanks for taking time to comment.
Your tinted moons encircling your year threaded on their orbit like pearls on an annular necklace.
My moon diminutive, isolated in a jagged wedge of ultramarine dusk framed by black roofs and craning pylons, outshone by angry red traffic lights, still pure and pagan, pulling me, encircling with ancient filaments.
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