I've been so low and dissolved, waiting for the latent to surge...feeling downright lunar.
My moon poem:
Over her
ancient face
of milk light
and rime,
shadows in flux
pulse time
and trace
the estuary shallows
pushed in
from the deep.
Small child
she dogs
sees a boat
glow above
the tree,
revealing
the weight
of gravity.
Hide and seeking
in thickets,
unraveling tangled
willow switches,
she plays out
the game,
riding dark waves
in a storied wind.
Illumination,
astride the night,
submerging
to burgeon
again
and again.
Shining through
the wax and melt
of millenniums,
she heard
the first voices
intuit her whisper
rippled over
the surface,
a pull to
knowing.
She has spoken
through waters
and risen saps,
through shoots
and lunacy.
Wizened thin
to a sickle
or dissolved
into black,
her touch
a tug of fingers
felt upon the weft
and root.
Blown full
in atmospheres
of dusk,
she stirs the
heart cup
to a blood spiral
and eggs break
into flower.
Her spell is
wide cast,
a slip silver ocean,
to catch fast
the sensitive
and hold still
reflections
of mirrored
change in
her silent ring
of snake song.
Solar plate etching "Iowa Moonlight" by Nancy Lindsay.
