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          Harvest Moon
          By Michael Keshigian

          Flame red,
          a bouncing balloon,
          every year
          the harvest moon rolls
          upon the hills
          on the bottom of the sky
          till dusk departs,
          then it floats upward,
          a gold coin in the deep dark pocket,
          treading heaven gingerly,
          a bassoon melody
          amid the starry ostinato.
          The Earth replies,
          a subtle hum,
          oaks and elms kneel in vigil,
          moonlit cows, astonished,
          stare as the glow swells.
          It sings until heaven is filled
          with orange splendor,
          the plains of wheat respond,
          flaxen fields melt.

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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006

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