by William Keller

Each month brings a full moon I barely see 
through a patchwork of oak and maple leaves,
often with layers of obscuring clouds
that discourage me from stepping out
to find wolf or snow, pink or strawberry, 
buck, sturgeon, hunter’s, beaver, or maybe
that cold moon. I have missed so many.

What if I made time for moons, climbed the stair
to the campus-top observatory?
I’d be like Galileo as I explored
that blinding world, too beautiful to bear. 
Would it matter if I went once a year?
Would I, despite taking an online class,
somehow botch all the photographs?

This full moon got past me but left enough.
I’ll slip out of these woods that coddle us,
drive to the old elementary school,
lie back on the ticking hood, feel the pull
of that freckled, fast-receding face.
I might love it more with one curve erased,
and know it’s not too late for me to change.

William Keller

Novelist and poet
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