October Moonrise Poem by Caroline Misner

Wasted apples
lie like cracked eggs
on the lawn of this withering garden.

A crow glides
as though it has every right
to be here,
as though it has every right
to pick through the dead leaves
like a matron at a yard sale.

The corn is in;
the parched fields are freckled
with pumpkins, old moles
that will split and rot
and disgorge their seed and string,
a feast for the wasps
that cling to death’s last breath.

The moon has been carved
with a smiley face, malevolent,
toothless, draped in grey cloud
it gathers straw and small bats
shaken from its hair.

Something is burning;
it is the season of fire,
squatting in a cavern carved
from a cold wind
that clatters my teeth
and grows and grows
into a field of minnows
until something blue whisks it away.

Did I make prayers and offerings
to these dour gods?
I can’t remember, but I do know
that my novenas have not been in vain.