Under the Swollen Moon

It is autumn now, and down by the creek
The trees bend in the northwest wind and wait
For nights to bring frost with long, thin fingers

Wielding scraggled and wispy brushes to
Paint everything with the colours of fire
While clouds roil and stream away in dark wisps

Under the swollen moon crouched on thin legs
At the edge of its wide white web of stars
To hatch a pale brood of spiderlings

Who will spin soon, in long and twisted strands,
Winter storms that freeze the creek and drift snow
Over this grass yellowing and matting

On the bank in the weak afternoon sun
While I remember your lips warm in the night.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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