I Ask the Harvest Moon
Please, eclipse the annual reminder
of how an afternoon can splinter
around my mother’s death,
then spin around to sing celebrations
of another year, another year
offered to me in this world.
I ask the Harvest moon to rise
over that long-ago Tennessee day,
a week before my birthday.
Root me, now, in California,
where surf rolls over bare feet,
seasons shift with a whisper.
Birth me again, October,
into burnt colors, cracks of leaves
scattered in a wind.