A Curious Moon

By Laura Tate

Cancer 𖤓 | Pisces ⏾ | Cancer ↑

Driving home from school today, I see no colors,
at least none to brag about, just late winter browns, olives, greys,
all blended together, colors not wanting to be seen
or heard.

Fields where soft winter cornstalks blew in the wind – now shaved
down to ragged stubble. Other fields look plowed already,
with telltale tracks from field to road, road to field.
They reek of fresh manure, offering nothing
but quiet promises.

How else to endure these final days of winter?
I need to learn the patience of small winged creatures
who wait for the right moment to wake up,
then crawl up out of the damp earth ready for flight.
Even a dragonfly has no need for answers.

There is the tiniest sound these days. Do you hear it?
The colors are coming. Any day now.
They’ll sneak in slowly, when we are looking elsewhere.
I saw a red fox this morning, half grey and muted,
its blazing coat like courage awakening.

Laura Tate’s poetry has appeared in One Art Poetry Journal, Thimble Literary Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Sky Island Journal, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Arboreal Literary Magazine among others. She is a proud grandmother and retired elementary school teacher who lives in the Washington D.C. area and hopes to be a witch or a time traveler when she grows up.