Harvest Moon

in Poetry

The harvest moon consorts with shadows/ in backlit sullen hollows/ where harbingers stood up or passed over/ are held hostage to a due date/ and dying of inaction or not acted upon/ currency wanes/ that harvest moon

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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