Roses On the Moon

ROSES ON THE MOON Midnight tickles your turned-up toes, dawn scrapes your knees but your head is already in daylight kissing the setting sun and not me. The scent of musk and the north woods spark a scene then the rush… don’t believe everything whispered under a sage moon. Memory is the landscape, longing the river that meanders like a lost child in dream. The waters lead to dried riverbeds and forgotten photographs, flotsam on the once raging river. Suddenly I find myself nowhere making sunshine out of oranges, searching for roses on the moon.