These are my ways to walk among moons,
a woods of moons, a bright moonarium,
a soul scape lit by distant reflection.
I count them like trees, ignoring the forest.
This is my choice. One moon rises at noon,
another at six, the twelfth at midnight.
Once in a red moon, all moons rise
at dusk, like white stones braceleting
a wrist purged of darkness.
This is my love, the brightest of moons,
the others, companions. No matter what is
called to the most aloof, the answer’s more light.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.