by David Shumate
If you live to be very old,
you may see twelve hundred full moons.
Some come in winter
and you trudge out into the deep snow
to stand beneath their glow.
Others come to you in the city
and you take an elevator up to the roof
of the highest building
and set out a couple of folding chairs
to watch it glide across the sky.
Or the moon finds you along a foreign shore
and you paddle out in some dingy
and scoop its reflection from the waters
and drink it down.
The moons of your old age are the most potent
but seem few and far between.
They make their way into your marrow
and teach it how to hum.
When your final moon arrives,
it’s as if youth has come back to you.
Though instead of flaunting its yellow hat,
now it’s dressed in black.
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