November Full Moon Sonnet

Hail, lady Moon, jailed behind bare branches,
yet rising and escaping to freedom.
Beneath booted feet, the dry leaf crunches;
blue-jay calls from crabapple at random,
and stream seems thick with dark-rushing water.
Sky turns to iron by late afternoon.
Swift gale blows, and walnut seems to totter.
When hawk flies, sparrows screech a warning tune.
Wet mud almost crackles beneath deer’s tread;
squirrel puts a last few acorns away.
Yarrow’s withered; partridge berries are fled…
and yet thick black roots burrow out from day,
to make new marvels and every good thing
when new life quickens in seed, egg, and spring.

24 comments

  1. One of the things that’s been quite interesting about writing these sonnets is that I’ve been noticing how much change there is within the seasons. The weather changes a lot, even in a relatively short two-week period. I’ve pretty much decided to write a second series of Moon Sonnets, since the two-week window is shifting significantly during 2006.

    I’m not explaining this very well.

    I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m aware that springtides exist even in winter, and there are hints of winter even in summer. The other day, at Lupinwood with Opayemi at Lupinwood, I saw the Star Magnolias already had their blossom pods in place, and were simply waiting in their fuzzy shells for spring. They’ll be ready to bloom in late February. My gardener friends have talked about getting bulbs in the ground, and readying their gardens for planting, even as the last harvest is already completed. I got carrots from my garden weeks and weeks after I thought it was over and done. They were pretty good carrots, too. So, that’s what writing these sonnets have taught me — even in summer, there is winter inside, and there is summer in deepest winter.

    I find that profoundly comforting.

  2. Ah, I see; well, it’s a perfectly reasonable question, certainly. *smiles* I arrived as a consequence of my insatiable curiosity, in this case via Vilhelm’s own friends list.

  3. Thank you for adding me to your frieds list; I’ve reciprocated, of course. Do feel free to visit my LJ any time and join in the conversation there.

    Vilhelm is a good friend of mine, certainly, however my arrival here was not of his doing.

  4. Hello; I do hope you don’t object to a complete stranger arriving in your LJ? Your poem is beautiful; we share an interest in poetry and Druidry, amongst other things. May I invite you to visit my own LJ?

  5. Hello; I do hope you don’t object to a complete stranger arriving in your LJ? Your poem is beautiful; we share an interest in poetry and Druidry, amongst other things. May I invite you to visit my own LJ?

  6. and yet thick black roots burrow out from day,
    to make new marvels and every good thing
    when new life quickens in seed, egg, and spring.

    Thank you. That makes the descending coldness go easier.

  7. and yet thick black roots burrow out from day,
    to make new marvels and every good thing
    when new life quickens in seed, egg, and spring.

    Thank you. That makes the descending coldness go easier.

    • One of the things that’s been quite interesting about writing these sonnets is that I’ve been noticing how much change there is within the seasons. The weather changes a lot, even in a relatively short two-week period. I’ve pretty much decided to write a second series of Moon Sonnets, since the two-week window is shifting significantly during 2006.

      I’m not explaining this very well.

      I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m aware that springtides exist even in winter, and there are hints of winter even in summer. The other day, at Lupinwood with Opayemi at Lupinwood, I saw the Star Magnolias already had their blossom pods in place, and were simply waiting in their fuzzy shells for spring. They’ll be ready to bloom in late February. My gardener friends have talked about getting bulbs in the ground, and readying their gardens for planting, even as the last harvest is already completed. I got carrots from my garden weeks and weeks after I thought it was over and done. They were pretty good carrots, too. So, that’s what writing these sonnets have taught me — even in summer, there is winter inside, and there is summer in deepest winter.

      I find that profoundly comforting.

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