She hunches over the table,

Squinting under the glow of twelve lunar lights,

Twelve holy moons

That anticipate creation.

Scraps of life litter the linoleum,

Disconnected images

Pilfered from the deep pockets of God.

All adapted,

All altered,

Her hands dowsing for answers

To quench a deep thirst.

Tails sliced off comets,

Their fire no a color,

Beads sewn on scales

Of century-old koi,

Snippets of conversation,

Laced inside smoke,

Bits of asparagus

Woven into spirals.

Everything that exists,

All that does not,

Lie strewn at her feet

Awaiting this moment.

She reaches for a moon,

Number Four among Twelve,

Smaller than the others,

Its sheen less intense.

But it is the chosen one

She will name the Turtle Moon.

(For Lisa, Happy Birthday)

(Copyright 2016)