Whose turn is it to watch for paradise? - Sarah Ann Winn
With first slip of daylight, I let loose hounds
of dark roast to a growling grinder, cracking
the quiet of thick frost and apricot overcast.
My black dog stretches in sun salute as we meet
a crescent moon. She looks a bit ragged and thin.
Winter slows many things, sap and squirrels, but
not the brooding of poets and farmers - incessant
is their surveillance. The moon needs a nap, drapes her face
with cirrus clouds; tries to overlook the millstones:
neap tides, menses, frazzled lunatics – tugging, tugging, tugging.
No wonder Selene stumbles narcoleptic spring to fall.
No wonder with each waning crescent, her sagacious gifts
surrender to rain. She needs a nap. There are blueprints
to dream for April, and a naked winter world
expects night escort, November to Spring.
No wonder Diana croons in the vernal chirr of peeper and toad.
Even beside groundhogs, she’d lay, seek a sluggish eclipse,
to catch a month of winks. She deserves a nap. Keep in mind,
we want her ready to romance a juicy May and June. Then, hold
her fixed with second wind for equinox, light steady for long harvests.
I’m holding my moon vigil this morning until the ghostly thumbnail
evaporates out of sight, but not out of mind. And tomorrow
it’s a quiet cup of PG Tips, I’ll sip, try to keep the ruckus down.