CURSING THE OLD WOMAN

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“If you are far from the enemy, make him believe you are near.”
 Sun Tzu

Forget the moon; forget the dead, tombstone, ashes.
Think of the high sun at noon. Think of asphalt on barefeet,
Bumble bees in linden trees, clean water from the tap.
We long to put words on the sky; to name: to understand.
Speak the language of the living. Hold candles in the night.
Sweet moon, so overdone you are a bane, a parking ticket,
A bill in the mail, a dog that barks all night, sweetest

Light, do you know, every lover loves you?
We watch you from the suburbs; sing your songs,
As you venture close to cities once a decade, you’re a cliché,
Bright cicada buzzing by the back porch light. We listen
Removed, as a two-hundred year old spruce forest burns
Quickly, as the wind gusts through a forest town.
Moon that pulls the tides over beaches,
Shining now on granite wing of angels, shoot no stars
From the heavens.

Look at you moon! So obvious & sacred.
You rise unknowable & scary, like a cathedral ceiling
To a peasant, painted with the hands of mortals.
The beggars & bums gawk at you from the alleys,
The lunatics, lonely & longing, delay their fate
As your brilliance rises in the few moments quiet,
Before the birds settle,
While sunlight disappears, a small torch
On the horizon as night begins to fall.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Full Moon.”

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