Strawberry Moon

by Ann Boaden

The strawberry moon is broken in half,
And seeded with its shadows. All around it,
Sky like still water. It is central and serene.

I should go in. The strips of day
Narrow between rising clouds. Yet
The moon is unconfined. And I cannot stop

Watching its white-silver turn to white-gold as it
Glides over my head, slips through shadowed
Leaves, briefly lights the hawk’s dark wing.

What rivets me to it—pins my throat with beauty?
Because its pocked, unfinished circle is perfection?
Because it occupies its space with regal calm?

Or because I know its rhythms in my body,
And feel, in our shared cyclic dance, the pledge
Of an eternal something understood?