I couldn’t decide on a title. I was working in a form: rhyming triplets. So Robert, the recording engineer said, “the best poem ever,” which was more than ambitious but much better than “untitled.” It’s not the best poem ever, but it is a reminder of the practice of working within a discipline, a form, to see what might happen.
Yesterday the blue moon settled in
between the branches of the neighbor’s pine
whose boughs hang heavy on my fence line.
There’s nothing practical about a backyard
poem, staring up at the moon, a card
you could write to an old, hard
love. Today it feels luxurious
to skip work and laundry, get curious
about the way the moon is furious
against the indigo morning sky.
Tomorrow I might be willing to try
to touch that moon before it rises high.