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Saturday, November 13, 2010

The Moon

- autumnal musings on the Four Mile Canyon Fire, 2010

The moon is the moon

whether pale as pumpkin seed

or smoke red. The moon swells,

a plum, it ripens blushing

with sunset or dark as a bruise.

Why bemoan what changes, what spins

the stars into unending darkness? Only what passes

endures, what we hold will be lost.

Flames on wind shriek through trees,

ashes all we possess, and still we go on.


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