Flower Moon

We sit beneath a brazen flower moon

Buried in thick clouds

We can’t see what we can feel,

Something quite familiar to women everywhere

They call it Rosh Chodesh

We sang Ripple, Grateful Dead

Thankful living beings

The scorpios are howling

So what’s new?

The azaleas glow

A looming force is tugging at my

Ankles

Our questions are bedazzled

With answers

We’re riddled with tradition

And longing