Boston Moon Poem by J. Barrett Wolf

On a warm midsummer evening
I ride the sixty or so miles back from Boston
Playing tag with a terra cotta moon.
Blood orange dark, at first, through the trees
It waivers, disappears, leaving a tint of
slate and indigo blooming on the spaces
between each whisper of cloud.

The heat of the day leaves me grateful
For these cool and cautious miles
That unfurl before my lights.
Behind is the call and response of fuel burn thunder,
The throaty drone of forties technology
And a sense of being borne through space
beneath the silver orb as it rises returning,
Brightening:
Wheat, bisque, pale ivory
A futile attempt to drive back the darkness,
keep the night, then the morning, at bay.

Now the full, soft lunar face seems to write my path
in soft grain flax and azure horizon
The painted hyphenation of concrete panels.

How much is there to dream in this soft tunnel of wind,
Oceans of air drafting hard through the leather helmet straps
Singing me into a trance
The road becomes a movie screen
Coiled backdropp against which
Flow reconsidered moments…

I was reading someone a poem,
Buying something at the Stop and Shop,
Waiting for an answer
Hoping for a miracle
Swimming in dark eyes
Admiring her face
Composing a verse
Lighting a candle
Casting a stone into the sea
Riding through the night
Riding

Taking grace and pleasure from the cloaking breeze
And the changing colors of the moon.