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
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