Moon-Speak

Full moon floats, single eye in skull of sky
over the backyard where
car carcasses grow rust 
and a crop of golden rods.

Ginkgo biloba weeps miniature golden fans
on the lawn, mangy under hoarfrost.		
I need gloves, my hand no longer nestled in yours
snow tumbles down, flakes unpaired.

I lay fallow, dormant season 
marching slow 
to the time when 
tree sap will drips 
from stretch marks 
that lacerate their bark.

Our axis tilts, forces open buds 
sucks them upward.
Snowdrops risk a peek 
through the dingy snow crust
and the mulch of last year’s leaves.

Far in the watchful sky
another full moon 
throws anchors
across mercurial lakes
to dependable shores 

where I’ll mend 
shards from broken plates
into a garden table top mosaic 
memories percolating 
to a time-sweetened elixir.

© Marie-Andrée Auclair