Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Just as I manage to lasso the full moon
and begin to reel it into this poem,
it disappears behind a bank of clouds.
It wants to be loved directly,
not nailed to a page with ink.
We don’t thank the moon for its appearance,
yet it blesses us in some way regardless.
Tonight I take its shadowy light as hearsay evidence
of the whereabouts of holiness.
Penny Hackett Evans