My Moonscape in November





Above the empty street 


        a dried grass sickle hovers behind the clouds

         slicing the darkness into streaks.

              I do not expect easy merriment:

                  my moon is the solemn type, profound

                             and forceful.

                         She has put a blanket of shades over the garden. 

a single lit window stares

back at her.

                                  Filling up she sweeps

                                                    along the brook and

        pulls on its water

                    even causing bulges for stirring events.


               Water runs from the window pane.

               Around the desk words   

              cast long      shadows.


             In November

             my moon paces


my poem.