Moon Cycles
Often, in silent times, I think
of trees and death, and how
they are the same:
Circular, replenished, endless,
taking, growing in kind,
Set between plastic places
that echo art that tastes
of bitter ash, bootleg cigarettes,
Back to the spring from which
all things flow.
I think, “why the Garden,
why plants, rocks, sunlight, rain,
why things so small hold joys?”
They are circles,
reminders of home.
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