Sunday morning. It peaks in the heavens,
calling forth legends of our ancient tribes:
Hunter Moon and Milk Moon. The Algonquin
speak of “quinne kesos”: phrase to describe
“much white frost on grass.” It
marks our summer’s
end, rush of falling leaves, wind’s sudden chill
warning our flesh. We rise from warm slumber
to close windows, linger in our deep, still
dark; gaze at night sky now clear with gleaming
stars. I watch and pray for this clarity
to bless our psyches, even when dreaming,
and surely when facing love’s rarity.
Astrologers say Venus rules Taurus,
hope our universe will heal, not scar us.
Roger Armbrust
November 17,
2013
