old gypsy balances the moon on his bow pierces it his violin still dripping with sunset his eyes close in the heart of the moon his bow a brush paints a dark bird crash landing its cratered nest his bow is a rocket searching for water it flies double stopped with his long ago secret arrow of time to his quiet sudden spectacular unending
10/09/2009
Posted on 10/09/2009Copyright © 2026 Kathleen Wilson
Just when I think one cannot create anything more about the moon in poem form, you find the perfect arrow and shoot it home with perfection. Clever, the gypsy, a fine instrument in projecting this vision - a legend already in the writing.
