The thinnest Cheshire smile
of September moon
hangs in deep blue western sky,
we see a sharp sickle
poised above harvest and vee of geese,
a curl of pine wood whittled,
or a sweet lazy fingernail clipping
of the galaxy.
At edge of equinox we look back
with washed out strawberries,
July whose chills
chased children in from the beach
and kept tomatoes green,
when we stood in coats,
licking a disappointed cone.
We can choose that in life, too,
reviewing people we had to de-trust,
dreams, not so much deferred
as devalued —
exchanged for smaller currency,
the fruit of things
in jobs or homes or educations,
in spouses or children,
that never seemed to ripen.
Or we look up at the beautiful moon,
a white comma
between all our metaphors
and choose to see the grin in the sky.