At twilight the great Cheshire smile
of September moon
hangs in deep blue western sky,
you see a sharp sickle
poised above harvest and fleeing geese,
a curl of pine wood whittled,
a sail taut against the wind,
or the sweet lazy fingernail clipping
of the galaxy.
There are many ways to remember
this June that dried out the strawberry plants,
July whose heat
wilted the children in from the beach,
hurried the pumpkins and squash in the fields,
enervated weddings and fireworks,
when we stood in our sweat,
melting a cone of disappointment.
We do that with our lives, too,
the disappointed thing,
reviewing the people we had to de-trust,
the costly dreams devalued
exchanged for smaller currency,
the jobs or spouses or children
that never summered,
never rolled out for us the perfect vacation.
Our life was a drought season,
while other people were on a glorious cruise.
Or we look up at the beautiful moon,
a white comma
between all our metaphors
and choose to see the grin in the sky.