rose moon

Some gardener’s stab at poetry.
I wait
for the tables to turn
but the summer passes
change is elusive
subtle.
Even weather is unremarkable.
Another hot day
windy evening
sparse rain
frog and toad orchestra
wet morning grass
puppy paws marking concrete
cats nap through dog days.
I am settled yet wary
expecting sabotage and subterfuge.
When my head spins
I recall diet
but suspect voodoo.
Each full moon has a name
to imply
corresponding tides.
Beauty covered by petals
pushed back by tears.
Dried petals in a jar
smell of a grandfather’s trellis and brine
of other gardens not mine
in the valley of a high desert
where climate & weather
are not the same
moon names are farfetched
the sea is eons gone.