FULL MOON AT 4 AM

Wide orb draped in
wool and water, 
I pause
to take a picture.
[A blot of dull black eternity
trapped in rectangle screen
lit by a faint bulb
that dangles miles
from this dog and me.]
See, fool, see!
Be swooned,
be still, be swallowed
by the open mouth of the moon.

THE SUN IN EARLY DECEMBER

The Sun in early December,

soon after breakfast, dangles

between the hills like a smooth

gold pendant pressed to the pink chest

of morning, as if she were the reflection

of herself and not the origination of reflection

and of light. A sight not of metal, nor moon, nor water,

but fire upon fire upon fire upon fire...

Oh what a sweet and simple revelation:

this realization that the origin of creation

lights my every day! Oh how I'd like to be

as beautiful, as useful, as meaningful

as the Sun in early December.