We have made much of this wily moon,
her rebel comings and her goings,
her invisible tide sky-strings,
the quiet way she ducks
and dives and dis
milky skin within
your own; set your beat
to the so-small feet of her bay
-ing. She sings your muchness
and your nothing. She leaves too soon.
It’s November, when we go most mad and moonly, and poem something every day. Wanna play? November PAD.
Ooh! Yes, I do!
Thanks for the reminder!
I love this poem and have reallly missed you the past several days.
Wonderful. I especially love the tide-strings.