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still and artless,
the moon marks time.
stationed boldly, scouting
well past the atmospheric cusp
where our lightness melts away
into the bleak and endless hollow,
it smiles back at us, speechless crowd
frozen in place by the very thought
of such an endless chasm.
no one dares to venture
further into darkness
than the moon.


my only memory of her:
tiny white-haired frame
standing in a pink bathrobe
and old house slippers
at the end of the driveway.
my great grandmother
watches me from what seems
like miles away,
shading her eyes from the Oklahoma sun
with a frail white hand.
As I make a break for freedom
on my tricycle,
I can’t tell if she is worried
or jealous.

autumn arrives,
seducing me with memories
of october-colored maples,
frosty morning windowpanes,
hot mugs of milky coffee,
my scarf whirling in the wind;
laughing with my dad,
we jump into piles of crinkley leaves,
our heads poking out
from bouquets of sugar and spice.