Josh Hanson
HARVEST MOON
Sept. 21, 2002
What sea change peddles us rolling sunned and dozing
bayward away and passing through black leaves of plum
now fallen, rhododendrons’ late heads lolling
huge as the wind-balm rises?
Against it we come
tandem toward a field of empty masts raked upwards,
horse-cart slow over brick, over the handbrake hum.
Daughter, sweetest fruit, we wheel amongst reeling birds
as your mother sleeps, this new-sown love unfolding,
the dew is still upon us, and our love unlearned,
here beneath sidewalk trees, saplinged arms in the wind
your arm up, finger to the blue of sky, the moon
already out, in whose light the season begins.
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