by Emily Gingrich
Which words can seize your beauty, rising moon?
You ride your circuit up across the sky.
You’re over-written, over-poetized…
Will faulty pen marks leave you minimized?
Yet beauty drives me to her sister: words.
Black and white can paint the brightest birds
With colours vivid in the reader’s mind,
Or shade a sunset for the eyes gone blind.
So I persist in gazing up at you.
Can simple scribbled memories live to stand,
Beset by rising moons of poet hands?
I’m just another girl with love-of-moons.
I watch you scale horizon’s violet dunes.
Do they smell like lavender? They must.
Your glow is wayward bits of comet tails,
Sprinkles of Andromeda’s stardust.
Now you’re bright and high upon your route.
The winter branches, stark across your face
Sketch on the snow their undulant salute
As you pass by to soothe another place.
Emily Gingrich is a Canadian teacher who is realizing she has too many dreams for one lifetime.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy