Poetry

Moon Lady rises

I am the moon lady, pale and ghostly.

But I have the jutting fork of the tree branch

Within me. Deep trunk of gnarled wood

which pulls as urgently as the eagles cry pierces the high air-

The watchful bird of prey which circles endlessly

Above me.

The elements can be merciless; this I know.

But the sun always rises again,

Soft and burnt orange, ascendant into a shimmering

Morning sky-

like a hesitant smile.

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One thought on “Moon Lady rises

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