Nancy: Our moon goddess would have less to do with romance and more with the tides, with the lives of fishermen and shellfish harvesters adjusting their lives to the timetables set by highs and lows.
Full Moon, Perigee Moon
Imagine the moon
rising out of the sea
Imagine the moon
placid as a mola mola
in the sky/sea
Imagine the moon
veiled in branches
a beautiful woman knowing the power of lace
Imagine the moon
rolling up her sleeves
by the side of the fisherman
lifting the boat off the shore
Imagine the moon
hunting the meadow
beside the bobcat
Now see the old woman
patient
waiting
And the moon
drawn to her mirror image
drawn to the bay
where the woman waits for her
Two moons
then one
then none
just the woman
and the sea
Alan: Until I lived here, I never felt truly rooted. Working the land through a year’s full cycle changed that.
Mother’s Day Plowing
The same dark, shabby horses, their careful plodding,
creak of the whippletree, simple commands,
ripple of eight legs churning up shadows.
Happy mother’s day, earth.
The same sheer yellow-leaved poplars shivering against stiff spruce.
The sod turning a gleaming brown,
thick snakes uncoiling under the team.
Happy birthday, earth.
The tide is out, not in. The wind’s from the south,
the clouds forgetting themselves in a moister blue.
The same scene painted from memory, the hues restrained.
Happy mother’s day, earth.
The boy’s on his own, he’s grown a beard.
The plow cuts cleaner, the clay is easing some.
We’re two weeks early on the year.
Happy birthday, earth.
The months turn: seeing that first field,
rose-root rough; a father checking has half-trained son at the gear.
We’ve worked this land for a year, and harvested food,
harvested more than food.
Happy mother’s day, happy birthday, earth.
“Mother’s Day Plowing” first appeared in Living On Salt and Stone (Stone Man Press, 1984)
