Afternoon Moon
On this concrete pad,
worn thin by time and rain,
our two iron chairs
stand empty and lifeless
when two blackbirds descend
onto rusty iron arms, waiting
in uneasy repose,
glancing sharply,
their beaks parted, tasting
the constant wind,
and rise when they decide
the time is perfect,
perfect like this brilliant
California day and
this endless
California sky
all morning-clouds blown
east to Nevada, and all
morning-fog pushed back
to the crawling Pacific,
with nothing between us and
the absolute universe
but the truant moon,
nearly transparent,
faded blue
like my jeans,
and washed out
to perfection.
poem by Steven Federle
Added by Poetry Lover
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