October is already approaching midpoint and once again our view of the moon waxes into fullness, on Saturday night. Hunter’s Moon,Travel Moon, Dying Grass Moon. This is the time of year when, in northern North America, native hunters went hunting to stock up food for winter. I am neither a hunter, nor an eater of meat so this time of year is more about plant harvesting and getting ready for winter. I wanted to write a poem to go with my monthly moon post so I put my reflections into an October acrostic:
Overhead—look up!—sun slants through blue, dark clouds, morning mist; patches and tapestries of orange, russet, red, yellow; autumn’s iconic play;
Cold fresh dampness glistens suspends, energizes muscles to sore exhaustion;
Torn memories pull, traces of past fallacies rise, fall—sprouts attempt encores while autumn resists temptations;
Orange-burnt marigolds self-replicate in generous abundance—pumpkins outround the moon;
Brown brisk stalks of mullein rule the sky as ubiquitous bees bask in purple borage stars—crickets buzz;
Evening blinded by sunset rushes to night; yet stubborn gardeners toil under moonlamp—what once was still day, now is night;
Reaping leaves, fruit, and branches for food and mulch; memories mingle in seamless timeflow waxing empty of distinct features.