I am of a blood red moon,
in the month of my woman
I am a howling she,
A praise be.
I am wolf and moon and blood,
I am of bitter truths and lunacy,
I am of wide-eyed raptures,
Finger tapping on white glass
And reflections on past,
When I call her.
She answers in her early rise,
Dinner-plated eye sized,
Remains, when sun adjoins again
At morning break,
She is glorious and stays.
She is holy and revered,
By all in love,
And lightened at the blackened pitch,
A candle in ginormous wick,
And wax and wane,
The fact remains,
She nightly nurses us all to health.
A Poem by Tish Camp ( c ) 2019
