The Last Full Moon of Winter

We seem to have lost
our connection
with the seasons
and phases of the moon.

we notice a blizzard
that hampers our commute
or a heat wave
that drives us to the shore,
but the equinox?
the solstice?

And maybe,
if it makes the headlines,
we’ll read about
a particular full moon,
but not the one that comes
every month.

This full moon
is the worm moon
as the ground thaws
the earthworms
except here in New England
when the ground is still covered
with snow.

Here, it is the sap moon
when cold nights
and warm days
draw the sugar filled sap
from the roots of maples
and some get tapped
and the sap is boiled
to become syrup.

The Celtic people call it
the moon of winds
and so it’s been
as the wind rattles
the windows
and winds around
the swaying trees.

The Choctaw called it
the moon of the big famine
as the supplies that sustained them
through the long winter months
before the new crops arrive
but we can just run down
to the grocery store
as long as the wind
hasn’t taken down
too many trees.

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Friday Night

(Another brief poem I struggled to write as part of my Lenten discipline)

It’s Friday night,
the end of a very long week
with much to write about
and little time
or energy
to write.

So you start a throw-away poem,
because it’s part of the process,
part of the discipline
and tomorrow will bring
a better chance
to write a better poem.

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The City of Missed Connections

She sits alone
In the small cafe
and checks the time
on her phone.

Perhaps something happened
or it was a different cafe
yet even when they did meet
it was a missed connection.

(This was about as much of a poem as I could get written yesterday as part of my discipline of trying to write a poem a day for Lent.)

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The crocuses came up
in the usual places
just like they had
since the first spring
after she planted them.

They had just bought
the house
and she thought
crocuses would be nice.

Every year
they were a wonderful surprise;
first to her husband,
and later,
to her kids and grandkids.

This year,
the crocuses
were a pleasant surprise
to the new owners
of the house
and a new patch
of crocuses
came up
beside her gravestone.

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It wasn’t how difficult
the hiding place was
to find
that mattered.

It was that they would get
so close
and you hoped to be found
and not found
at the same time.

It was that they kept searching
for you
sometimes close enough
for them to hear
your heart pounding
if they only paused
and listened.

Years later
when you turned
and walked away,
although you wouldn’t admit it,
you held your breath
waiting for them
to run after you;
afraid they would,
afraid they wouldn’t.

you sit quietly
who is left
to come.

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