POEM

What We Talk About When We Talk About the Moon

In myths and poems, it keeps company with the rose.

Cold scythe of winter. Hammock of summer.

There’s no eclipsing its power over the sea.

In the game of hearts, we “shoot the moon,”

while each new phase of darkness

smolders with anticipation.

Our yard trees may fence us from it, but waxed full,

it offers delivery with argent bath of light. 

Mystics’ elixir. Astrologers’ purlieu.

The moon harvests our dreams.

— Elizabeth W. Jackson