Winter Trails

Moon Illusions

Last night the moon rose ocher,
illusory giant at the end of the street
within the proscenium of her theater,
cloud-curtains open.

Upon that expansive disc what memories
written from streams of tears
to her dry parchment, the deed of time?..
And what resonant chords may stir
to blinked-back blurs in those who fix
their eyes on her inexplicability?

You could tell from dusk something was afoot:
dark blue conflated colors to monochrome
tyranny:
                  black tree silhouettes, muddy salmon
hues in darkness of clouds, a hint of bile,
as if a green sun's ghost had combed
the memory of a tragic sky,
                                                          all succumbed,
all died into blue embrace, at the end willingly.
Jupiter announced himself and fringes
of occluding nuage, raven-winged, flew on.

I look with something in my mind lolling
helplessly like a panting dog's tongue
at this sandy moon deranging all I tune
at road's foot - a ruin of a rune, near full
and huge and yellow-book of desert ending.

...