Every Blue Moon

Lights flip on. Flopping to the aeropress. Measuring my morning cuppa fresh coffee grinds, stirred in my mind with cream. Filling pill boxes. Reading poetry, writing poetry, as I glance up every blue moon to the patriot-dance taking place on my stone fireplace. Passionate zing of orange, yellow, blue bombs - fireworks on the celestial ballroom floor. Lustrous gowns of a grand finale over the Big Apple - the towers still intact, still have roots, still watch over the night life. Celebration in the harbor. Lady Liberty still stands, watching the city folk glide with their red and white gowns o’er the sparkl’ing glass, with sea worthy class. Helicopters welcomed still; no one’s afraid of the hereafter. Nearby on slightly tinted-teal walls a nod to Peter Max - Lady Liberty touches her torch onto a specific spot on the globe - remembers the loss. Clearing the fog with a cuppa joe. Lights flip on and off. We can never go back. Stepping forward into the dark, the moon shining at my feet, hiding my distress at the past, God guides my feet into the future. 6/24/2023