Anne Cope Wallace's blog

Moon Poem (1995)

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?

February 2003 : In Memoriam - To The Astronauts

 

 

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