“The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world….”
—Ezra Pound, Canto LXXXI
Wolf Moon
Frigid morning,
fence post tops’
sugar-glaze icing
glinting.
Snow Moon
White narcissus brighten
this winter-dark room;
would that their scent
didn’t give such offense!
Worm Moon
Nothing more barren
than a leafless branch
after cardinal has
departed his perch!
Pink Moon
Brief shower
followed by sunbeams;
now drifting clouds
reflected in puddles.
Flower Moon
Bent low by a downpour,
waist-high peonies’
creamy-white blossoms,
soiled, soiled!
Strawberry Moon
Caught without umbrella
in a summer downpour,
soaked through to my skin
—delightful!
Buck Moon
At your service,
Monarch, Viceroy,
Red Admiral,
sampling my garden flowers!
Sturgeon Moon
Platoon of black ants
reconnoitering brick patio;
one, bringing up the rear,
shoulders a wounded comrade.
Corn Moon
On the cement walk, stained blue-black
where it passes beneath a mulberry,
lies one last, ripe berry,
one last unexploded grenade.
Hunter’s Moon
Squirrel perched on bare bough
rubbing paws together—
tallying buried treasures
in yard below?
Beaver Moon
Wooly Bear crossing my path
your rich brown coat
warmer than any pricy
Canada Goose ™!
Cold Moon
The season’s bounty long-harvested,
but a few shriveled raisons
remain here, there,
on the snow-dusted grape arbor.
Blue Moon
Eyes downcast,
black cloaked crows
pace a neighbor’s yard,
davining.
Mark Pawlak is the author of nine poetry collections, most recently “Reconnaissance: New and Selected Poems and Poetic Journals.” He lives in Cambridge, Mass.