Pink Moon

Pink Moon


Floating, just above the trees,
almost cradled in uppermost branches.
Far too bright in earliest dawn for my camera
to pick out facial features, the full moon
is wrapped in a gauzy veil.

Shawl-wrapped, in bare feet, I lean
on the mailbox to steady shaking hand:
I want to capture this precise moment--
for it is simply splendid resting there,
just out of reach, this palest pink balloon.



Warming cold feet on the heater beneath my desk,
I start my morning routine. Wending my way
through overnight newsfeeds, who did what with whom,
a small article catches my eye-- I didn't know the full moon
in April was called Pink.