Bio Note: I play with words on page and stage, and love to articulate the rings of meaning I see when I throw pebbles into the pond of life—food, family, friends, nature.
Winter’s Last Full Moon, March 9, 2020
Winter’s last full moon leapt out from the horizon last night jumping over a line of clouds to pause, caught between the stick fingers of my neighbor’s birch. I stood, a while, jacket buttoned, scarf wound tight, camera in hand, basking in his silver light, savoring the closeness of his favor, wondering if he, like me, was pondering the reality of this as last rising between leafless branches. When next I would stand to watch him, those birch trees would be awash in leaves, waving green across his silver face, in a warm breeze that will ripple through my hatless hair tug at my jacketless arms— by his next visit it will be spring
Our yellow daffodils are spread out over their patch in our yard, ever more each year. Yellow trumpets sound a silent symphony in spring’s soft lips announcing a triumph of old bulbs of life reformed from deep within the ground to cover the dry brown patches with new color, new life.
©2020 Joan Leotta
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