Monday, June 25, 2018

Moon


Veiled moon, wind chimes,
bridge lights half seen
through the fog.

Unglamorous, unsung,
her gibbous face erased
as she gazes on

El Paso, Paris
or Pakistan
and we try

to remember
if she wanes
or waxes.

I took my mother
for a stroll
down the street

behind the senior
housing where she
now dwells.

I say stroll,
actually I rolled
her wheel chair.

And she pointed
to some blue wildflowers
growing in a vacant lot.

So I picked a small bouquet,
and put them in a jelly glass
of water in her room.

On the window sill
where she could
look at them.

We watched Jeopardy
and a show about
a butterfly that only

lives in five small places
on the coast of Oregon.
They might soon be gone.

And the blue flowers
in the jelly glass
on the window sill

began to droop
within the hour.
Mom was ready

to sleep before
the sun went down
and the veiled moon

peeked through
the gathering
evening clouds.

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