Tag Archives: friday the thirteenth

Six Thirteen Fourteen

Six Thirteen Fourteen (Honey Moon)


The sagging bottom of the sky tears on the mountain
and the gray spilling down ten miles away eventually

obscures the entire ridgeline. I’m out here to see the first
full moon rising on a Friday the thirteenth in June

in a hundred years, and now the horizon is missing.
In the highest branches of the old walnut tree

the leaves are flinging the last rays of sun away
with such chaotic gusto I can’t tell where the wind

is coming from. Closer to the ground the silver maple
holds its leaves out completely level, motionless

as if confirming that, somewhere, here for
the moment anyway, all is calm. The mist arrives

on slender legs ten minutes later, apologetically calm
and thinning the distance: the mountains have moved closer

like how a memory of someone far away suddenly appears
as a thing you want to climb, or a barrier on the path.

And still there is no moon. In bed before midnight
I feel a sudden rush of love for you

as if I myself had just broken through life’s haze,
glowing and spherical, irreducible, reaching without

fail. While the most I see out my window later
is a wedge of pure light through the shifting clouds

I will remember that moon and who I was suddenly,
how love shone off me from light’s source.