to know the moon

to know the moon

when the thick yellow light of late
afternoon plasters the
shuttered houses with mother-gold,
the murmuring leaves grow
still, as if they have noticed the wind
quieting to an evening breeze.

first crickets test the still air
with sharp clicks to see
if it might shatter.
shadows of bushes reach
like dark fingers across the lawn
and up over the porch lip

the gentle, creaking sway of the
porch swing sneaks movement
into a still life.

a quivering blue
slips reluctantly across the sky
chased by a rising, dark curtain in the east
driving another day over the hill,
pulling night's blanket to the day's chin

out behind the horizon, the bare, reaching limbs
of naked elms filligree the edge of night
and then, that sad, smiling yellow face
raises its sallow forehead

      i think that we can never know
      the moon; can only swoon, as first yellow,
      then white, milk, fills our huge
      eyes with every memory man has
      ever held.