The supermoon seemed reserved tonight--
despite decades of waiting, lingered
behind clouds' torn batting
until only an apple sliver remained
unswallowed by earth's shadow.
In light of that long darkness,
we were grateful to sit, riveted
to the lump of earth, awash in harvest
smells of drying summer, in air laced
with insects' final songs. Even after
the swallowing, the moon shone--
red through the sinew beneath night's skin.
despite decades of waiting, lingered
behind clouds' torn batting
until only an apple sliver remained
unswallowed by earth's shadow.
In light of that long darkness,
we were grateful to sit, riveted
to the lump of earth, awash in harvest
smells of drying summer, in air laced
with insects' final songs. Even after
the swallowing, the moon shone--
red through the sinew beneath night's skin.
W. H. Auden once praised a poem by saying that it was a work which any poet would be proud to have written. His words come to mind as I read this poem! Your accomplishments continue to inspire, and even to amaze.
ReplyDeleteAw, thanks, Tom! What lovely encouragement!
DeleteNice... captures a mood. Wish I'd have taken the time to have witnessed the celestial offering last night.
ReplyDeleteThank you, TS. My brother joined me to watch the eclipse. I find doing these things with someone else helps me actually follow through.
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