Super Moon

for George

Not the fat mandala the meteorologists
were touting on the news but

a dime-size jewel floating beneath us
in the ponds black skies which

my grandson, nearly two, snatches up
in his small first. Opening it slowly –

convinced of what he possesses,
and by what he’s possessed –

he offers me his wet palm.
I kiss the moon there.

Back in the ’60’s, as a young poet learning his craft, I was drawn to visionaries with a flare for seeing beyond: Hart Crane whose “Stars scribble on our eyes…”; and Jimi Hendrix, guitar chords shooting off like rockets as he sang “Excuse me while I kiss the sky.” But I learned that even poems focused on the transcendent need to be grounded in the here-and-now of our shared world: a sip of coffee, mourning doves piping in the dogwood tree, the ones we love within arm’s reach. Before our enforced isolation, our grandson George had become my daily guru, teaching me how to appreciate the little mysteries erupting, well, everywhere. Perhaps right now you’re thinking of a young face in your life who has re-shaped your view of the world. I think this crisis challenges our understanding about what is really within our grasp. And so I thought this poem might be worth sharing now.