Waning crescent moon,
dark hued
and lovely in her diminishment,
cradles in upturned arms
the shadow of her fullness.
The dark roundness
heavy against the setting bow,
fills the void
of what once was abundance
and will be again.
Her ebbing light,
soon to darkness and rest
in a starry landscape,
until her rebirth,
the silver sliver loveliness of the
waxing crescent moon.
*** This poem was written several years ago. Now taking on a different meaning for me.
transcendent
the little dog and I watch
the waxing crescent descend
transfigured
by the light of the evening star
translucent
in its beauty
transpire
coming to light
the descension of the pale crescent moon
transfiguration
sudden emanation of radiance
Venus in the western sky
Colors recede into the waters fall,
casting the depths into shadow.
Singed fingers of sunlight
echo across the last faint reflections
settling into the corners of the day.
Twilight fills in and pushes past the horizon
until at last, the gleam of a silvered corona
is seen in the western sky,
floating in deepest celestial blue-
the quiet of the slender crescent
as she gently cradles the old moon in her arms.
*** a revision of a previously posted poem.
slim crescent of light
etched in the smooth blue canvas
of a january sky
waning pale
in the dark of early morning hours
to arise from the chrysalis of night
unfurling silver wings
for lunar flight
twilight lingers in the treetops
the dog and I try not to stare
as the bats give web wing into the beckoning air
such grace and sturdy stretch of flesh and bone
un-feathered bird and night masked soul
they blindly dance into the paths of stars
the dog and I walk the violet deepening path
lanterns of fireflies inflame the slim crescent moon
casting reflections of the once and future dawn
she is the mirror of the suns musings
choicest tomes are recited in her presence
while bashful boys make cow eyes at her pale face
and swear oaths to her silvered beauty
the dog and I loiter in the glimmering dusk
listening to the poetry of wing and moon
waxing and waning
as we slowly make our way home
in the darkling summer night
sharp is the blade
grass tall and green in fields of June
sharp is the blade
grass shorn close as the field is hay’d
summer stars across the sky are strewn
her scythe is sharp, the crescent moon
sharp is her blade
Colors recede into the waters fall
Casting the depths into shadow
Singed fingers of sunlight
Echo across the last faint reflections
Settling into the corners of the day
Twilight fills in and pushes past the horizon
Until at last, the gleam of silvered corona
Is seen in the western sky
Floating in deepest celestial blue
The quiet of the slender crescent
As she holds the old moon in her arms
Reliquary
As I sweep into my hand
from the table’s edge,
the small sacrifices
you left for me,
I think about the saints
and their reliquaries.
Bits of bone
and parings,
faded cloth
and dusty splinters,
locked away in glass cases,
reflecting supplicants
kneeling in prayer.
Walking outside
under the dark heavens,
I release from my palm
the fragments of you
as the slender fingernail moon
rises brightly in the East.
perched on a cedar bough –
watching the rising sun –
Venus and the crescent moon
thecourseofourseasons 