With gratitude to Cat for the image prompt.
The moon was rubbed gold that night,
a sliver of wealth
anointed layer by layer by the hands
of the living,
the hands of the dead
and the touch of those long gone before.
Grandmother was there
somewhere too, sandwiched
in peeling gold micron-thin,
and great-grandmother, her hair
shiny-black under a silk scarf
fresh and bright, full of air and sun.
The moon was rubbed-gold that night,
and beyond it stretched
an impossible sky of milky way,
a light-filled bowl
long-stirred for the feast.
September 18, 2009