Ripe Harvest Moon,
all the weeds gone to seed,
the pups weaned
at a new home now
in the next valley.

In the waxing follows full,
in the full, the waning.
Fruit in the fallow fields.
Sweet of apple,
wealth of pumpkin,
golden corn.

How blessed are we around this fire to share it?
To howl the umbra,
Earth, the Moon,
flow the blood
round the year,
leaves to roots,
to the ground.

not a sound

The eclipse red dark,
a full month spins
waiting for the light to return,
wraithed in drum-beat heart.

Ripe Harvest Moon,
all the weeds gone to seed,
the pups weaned
at a new home now
in the next valley.