“The moon will glow in pink tonight,” they said.
Is that a false line from some writer’s book?
The thought of pink full moon fills me with dread.
But still I know that I will have to look.
This month of April seems to be the clue.
It happens every year but I’ve not seen
the moon parade in pink––it’s sometimes blue
like when it’s high above Kentucky’s green.
When it gets dark I go outside to see.
And sure enough the moon is glowing pink.
It’s full and bright and shining light on me.
I stand and stare and don’t know what to think.
Then I surmise that lines the writers weave
must show the reader–and he will believe.
Blue flowers, tiny,
clinging to soft earth
as though your very existence
depends upon its dark soil;
your roots run at fragile angles
through red, brown, and black —
you are a symbol of many things;
among them, strength and beauty
that only the Creator can claim
as His Masterpiece.