The Moon Poem by Bengt O Björklund

Saturated with circular perfection,
not yet pale in September’s setting sky,
it wages yet another way to inherit.
Sparrows fold their day in merit,
with feathery tales of frost and fame.

Once the grass was tall and free,
slow nights carried windy messages
across a perfectly curved turtle sky.
Now the grass is hurriedly trimmed short
for the final, concave passing hour
with its mercury motion down.

Boldly it defies the cry of dead birds
that roll across forgotten roadside tombs
where I circle my turning pleas.
Never again shall my prayers
fall in love so easily
with rough saxophones on the radio.

Your regal rising above hushed trees,
bare with dark stiff tongues,
is etched in true night blue belonging.
I have known your coming
long before these words fell at my feet.