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MOON POEM
The moon, the way
it sits so simply
never calling
attention to the skies,
shifting clouds
or even to itself,
a yellow lantern
fixed so close I might
have hung it there,
stepping sweet
and high on a runged
ladder in the sullen
night air . Once I set
the moon so close
that I can touch
the stubborn beams,
I know a path to follow,
moving slowly
down the winding road,
gliding through
the valleys and the towns
sprinkled like sand,
yellow sand in the dusk,
moving on until
the highway bends
around folded mountains,
the blue and shaded
Appalachians, but here
the road is lifting,
granite cliffs scribed
with orange strokes
like a child’s crayon
scrawls, the moon
hanging yellow-golden,
fixed so low and still
so lonely I can almost
hold it in my hands,
I can almost speak
the question, when will I
be home, home at last?
Posted at 01:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)
IN MEMORIAM – TO THE ASTRONAUTS
February 1, 2003
The body wakes to an ache
that is bearable, that is
unbearable, that rises and falls,
flung deep in the roots
of the blazing azalea,
the budding spring,
in a night still twisted
with wonder and fear,
while we search
without dreams, search
for the sign that will lead us,
but how will we know
where to turn when the stars
are blazoned with anger
and the moon
rocks the dying,
dissolving in desert sand.
Is it still an hour until dawn?
Anne Cope Wallace
Montgomery, Alabama
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Dark Dreams, Lightning Dreams
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Love Letters
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Woman At The Wheel
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