Floating, just above the trees,
almost cradled in uppermost branches.
Far too bright in earliest dawn for my camera
to pick out facial features, the full moon
is wrapped in a gauzy veil.
Shawl-wrapped, in bare feet, I lean
on the mailbox to steady shaking hand:
I want to capture this precise moment--
for it is simply splendid resting there,
just out of reach, this palest pink balloon.
Warming cold feet on the heater beneath my desk,
I start my morning routine. Wending my way
through overnight newsfeeds, who did what with whom,
a small article catches my eye-- I didn't know the full moon
in April was called Pink.
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