February Moon Over Iowa

I hunker down long after dark
And stare out over the sea.
It’s—what? two hours earlier
In Iowa?—a long way from
The winter-faint scent of salt
We once carried through the night.

The moon there is still moving
Through its slow arc. Here it pulled
At my eyes along with all
The other waters of the earth.

The moon there is moving now
Over the snow it made from
My tears and gave to the wind
To scatter around your stone.

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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