If It Is Possible Searching for sunrise this morning, east through freckled patches of window screen. A quiet yellow glow appears, mellow, serene, not heart-gripping dramatic pinks we’re sometimes shown, so arresting it feels that one could die happy now, complete, having been immersed in such a thing. I switch to west, our back window view over the river, glistening like diamonds, and there comes a faint pink-purple blush, underlining the full Wolf Moon, vivid in this waking sky. Small but powerful, our moon at its apogee, glowing at me like a round white grape lit bright from within. If it is possible to pilot one’s way into a day, best way is with full moon above a river, color in the sky, and a root centered in openness; allowance for come-what-may, nimbly accepting, be it rough, easy, or arresting, received softly as massaging, hugging, holding your heart with the astonishment of wonder.
Marjorie Moorhead writes from the New England river valley border of NH/VT. She is the author of Survival: Trees, Tides, Song (Finishing Line Press 2019), Survival Part 2: Trees, Birds, Ocean, Bees (Duck Lake Books 2020), and has poems in many anthologies and literary journals. Marjorie’s first full collection, Every Small Breeze, is forthcoming, as well as a third chapbook, In My Locket.
Amethyst Review 