By, Caroline Recker
Something in the orange moon, bloodied
by the hanging haze of smoke, carried
500 miles to us, speaks of summer’s end.
But it’s much too warm for that, and it took so long for night to fall.
Not fall. Not yet.
Still I dream of them, black trees in silhouette
on orange moon. Take a step left
and make her pristine again. Perfect shining sphere,
the brightest in the sky, but her light is too diffused.
Need the artificial, still orange, though not of the fey,
to see them: particles pendent in the air,
reminder of a foreign wildfire blanketing the city.
A would-be silver lining in shades of tangerine.
But though there is heat, and too much at that,
there is no flaming urgency in that cratered dreamsicle circle;
do not be alarmed.
Does she know her name?
Vast, uncaring, unaware
She could crush us all.
