For the first time this year I dragged out the old blanket and spread it on the grass. Dozed with my head on my arm, the sun warm enough to make me shed a layer. Oh boy my soul needed that sweet touch. And I dozed to the buzzing of bees in the gold and purple crocuses.
At dusk I stood on the lawn and felt air move against my skin. Not the numbing cold that freezes tears in your eyes. But an air scented with earth.
My son pointed out the sliver of waxing moon hanging between silhouetted tree branches, delicate as lace mantillas.
The moon siren, and the faint pulse coursing through the soil seduced the tree frogs out of hiding to call in lusty peeps from the unfrozen pond.
And now, against the darkness of a spring night A moth drives it’s wings against my window Oh so eager to step inside and make mad passionate love to my lamp.
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.