Moonlit

It’s the moon that triggers — full gibbous rising through
leafless sweetgums, hickories and elms. Plumb lines reaching
from the knoll leaning against the house across the street.
A living copy of Rousseau’s Carnival Evening poster
tacked to my 1972 college bedroom wall. Unclothed trees
plated silver with Luna’s light, and the couple, dressed
in white for Carnival. Lent just around the corner.
Northern France, of course trees wear no leaves in February,
or even early April. The moonlight is naive and flattened,
like new born air. But the icy orb climbing hand over hand
through the neighbor’s trees, fastens opals on every
oaken arm — braceleting every clear December night.

Gary D. Grossman
Chewers by Masticodores
4 March 2025