POETRY
The Harvesting of Moons
a free verse poem
So speaks the Corn Moon and I am told news of you.
Carrying on in the absence of me, of we, of all things that were supposed to be.
You have harvested all of my many moons and traded them for freedom.
Your skies are empty now.
So speaks the Corn Moon high on a whir of cicadas and fox yowls
The stars look on, bereft of concern, indifferent, they turn away.
They bear secrets no longer.
Promises dry up in the absence of light.
Might I have this last dance upon the moss and mud?
Let the Corn Moon rise, one last hurrah before the final bow.
Your skies are empty now.
Thank you for reading.