The Moon

The fruited moon still hangs upon the tree

the crescent moon scythes through the darkened sky

the harvest moon swoops over where we lie

the travel moon descends so we may see. 

The wolf moon calls and we long to be free

the flower moon has bloomed and will go by

the cold moon chills with wind and floats on high

the lovers’ moon brings your bright light to me.

The storm moon tears with clouds into the night

the seed moon marking out its starlight trail

the mead moon’s honey wine is sweet and strong

the old moon watches with its patient light 

the new moon tenderly begins to sail

the oak moon shelters us where we belong.