GUNGYWAMP MOON

An unabashed full moon beckons
bold above my abject autumn garden,
tempting tortuous memories of
a moonlit Pinchot night,
mocking with peek-a-boo gestures,
of recurrent revelations in opalescent clarity,
through dispersing anxious storm clouds;
silhouetting acorn-clustered oaken fingers,
reaching ever upward in worshipful extension,
of alms upon the bosom of the harvest maid,
bidding fond adieu from ever distant stations.

Scarcely the carefree custodian,
crisp and cold against the hot velvet black,
whose light I see forever framed
in your firefly eyes;
keeper of that perfect Pinchot night,
watching with nocturnal lovers;
that standing sentry whose company compels
historical reflection of forgotten fearless settlers,
and the mighty sovereign Tunxis who are no more,
but for that one whose nation now is Hooker’s Grove,
who only walks within this light.

My memorial moon of the Gungywamp,
shrouded and veiled vague on this altar indistinct,
this night’s unwelcome usurper,
enchanting nonetheless,
as forsaken others dutifully attest,
bearing vivid witness and animate remembrance,
to once upon a mystic midnight,
where two souls loved and three spirits met;
we eagerly embraced,
and were at once kindly gathered,
to the fellowship of kindred understanding.
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