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| April's full moon is the Pink Moon |
Reading on the back porch by foreheadlamp
as day left the field and crossed over the ridge,
the Pink Moon rose up from the woods— and I had it,
a rhythmic, emotionally-wrought first line
for a new poem, a gift from the poetry gods
that vanished just as quickly to be forever lost
no matter how much I fine-tuned reception.
What a day it had been, the first warm afternoon
of the year when everything happens at once,
goldfinches brighter at the feeder,
dandelions' erupting with joy in the yard,
leopard frogs leaping into the pond with a shriek,
friends texting avatars with red hearts for eyes,
and... what else ?
I've been saving an especially keen observation for last,
but I can't think of it now— so much I can't think of,
Easter nearing, my daughter's favorite holiday,
ever since she awoke one Easter morning not so long ago
to a yardful of inflatable, ridiculous rabbits
I'd blown up in the dark after night shift.
(Seeking cellophane grass, I'd hit a sale at Jamesway).
Pen in hand, I wait in vain for word from the Muses,
hyla piping their plaintive, piercing chorus
under the Pink Moon, buoyant behind the old walnut
and casting pale shadows under the dogwood
at the top of the hill,
planted in her memory,
ready to bloom.
