I decided to write a silly poem about the moon
But your name kept coming up in conversation and with it
the way the moon looked that night
And the way the air moved with the trees
As though they had secrets to keep

There is nothing really that rhymes with the waning moon
Nothing that I can think of except that it sometimes rhymes with the snow
And sometimes with the way your blues eyes capture the moment like a polaroid camera
How is it that I have lived all these years and didn’t know
that shaking those pictures didn’t make the image appear any quicker

My impatience to see what I had just seen
To record it somehow so that it would be clearer
That waxing and waning are still metaphors
And my hair is still silver
in the soft white light of the April Egg moon

*** A fragment of a poem written a few years ago, recovered in honor of the Super April Egg Moon