Hazy Moon

hazy moon 03

Last night I almost hugged the hazy moon,
that crazy bubble in the sky
who is ever entering new phases.

She rose red, round, and huge
as a melon of imagination

She loomed listening to the pine pitch
and birch bark, an ear for the night choir
She tugged
I leaned as she rolled higher

Two hands from the horizon
she pulled in humble as a quarter
levitated and kissed the high limb tips
of a locust tree

For a moment free
in the circle of her gravity
I understood what that chalkball moon
held over me

She hovered like a lover on a balcony
waiting for a star to shoot
She disappeared once each month
leaving the shadow undilute
but she was never faithless

Always she returned
sweet as an arc of canteloupe
billowing like a parachute,
calling to the oceans in their cells

reaching down to tips
of deepest roots
coaxing up through tender stems
of slender shoots
dragging even through the leather hearts
of old galoots
the purest waters of the poorest wells

Jim Culleny; 1977

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