Something for the Spring Equinox. I wrote this poem at this time back in 2005, and it was published in my HappenStance collection, The Body in the Well (2007).
The moon edges out of its pocket,
a coin ready to fall away.
The ash at the end of the garden,
black branches lean as winter
is about to sow its silver.
Chopped wood kindles
and enters the air, rises like incense
to the darkness leaning in,
makes the moon-shine thicken
to the white of an egg as it’s poached.
Sat here, I’m cured like a herring
in the smoke-house. When at last I go
inside, closed against the cold,
I’ll have the pith of the slow-burned tree
beneath my skin. I’ll be rich
with the light that everywhere
has fallen, absent-minded, from the sky.