Driving home from town last night, rising pale yet solid
eyes deceived into imagining closeness
an intimacy that isn't.
I wanted to reach out to touch
find something tangible
in a season of uncertainty.
Remembering childhood nights, climbing out of the car
with Mom and Dad teaching me as they pointed
to say cheerfully "Hello Mr. Moon"
a greeting I offer up still.
This should be our harvest moon.
Farmers bristle with work both night and day.
There will be no rest, until the fields are clean.
Then perhaps, peace of mind will settle.
Until the seasons turn again.
Join Emily at In the Hush of the Moon for more imperfect prose.