Solo de Lune

"The moon is rising, O read in a dream! O road without end, here's the post house, where they light lanterns, where drink a glass of milk, and gee-up we're away, in the song of crickets, under the July stars." – Laforgue, from "Solo de Lune"









I see that I am merely navigating
my way through the Renoir of Indian grass and trees.
There is no need for moon for here,
here where the crossing angels of pelicans
slowly dip across the burning prairie
toward the Lake at Onalaska,
where the dragonfly's catch fire at the end
of the blazing star stalk – you can see through
their mottled wings as if lit glass.
Do not let the moon ever come.
Darkness merely hushes songs.
The prairie dropseed, the chorus of the yellow coneflower,
the high-pitched falsetto of the twinkling aster
I go alone along the prairie
path and it leads through the buzzing of bees.
How they nettle at the wild bergamot.
I crouch over to examine the rags of purple petals.