Day Moon
Accidental afternoon,
the washed macadam: stiff rain
glancing from bald stone like thoughts
tired of thinking, the birds
dissolving in the whiteness
over the prongs of the hills.
Ravel of rain finishing
where the afternoon ended,
which was the hollow of the
story, and the rain dying
into the sky, and you, and
the wet scent of leaves spilling
from the storyline. Brightness
flying low, the leaves holding
rain light as if a hill of
leaves knew another story
of dying and love. Sudden
burden of light: a day moon
hanging in a wing of blue
and the clearing slipping through.
Becky Kennedy is a linguist and a college professor. Her work has appeared in a number of journals and on Verse Daily, and her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.