the crescent of our strawberry moon

When the moon
is wet with the tears
of its own shadow
the crescent of our strawberry
moon missed
shines – the light

white mist from a cracked fossil,
a nod, unfathomable
until a nightingale’s song

- this song flashes
through the litmus
paper thank you
rust to blue
like a ribbonned bow –

in the drawer
next to the Kimono,
an expanding meadow
of poppy unwrapped
a yielding
more precious than Monet,

a wildfire, or a door in a field
of Vincent’s iris, where you are. The breeze 
to your back is May to June’s gentling 
and the sweetness of summer wine.

06/20

When the moon
is wet with the tears
of its own shadow
the crescent of our strawberry
moon missed
shines – the light
white mist from a cracked fossil
and a nod, un fathom able
until a nightingale’s song
- this song flashes
through the litmus
paper thank you
rust to blue
with a ribbonned bow –
for in a drawer
next to the Kimono
an expanding meadow
of poppy unwrapped
and untied a yielding
more precious than Monet,
a wildfire, or a door in a field
of Vincent’s iris, where you are. The breeze 
to your back is May to June’s gentling 
and the sweetness of summer wine.

06/20