Full Beaver Moon
gnawing open the aspen boughs . . .
La Luna emerged the other night
decked out in fulsome beaver fur
and plump as my incredulity.
Shy alluring sleepy boughs yawn
moonbeams of deep devotion pry
widening as if by lunar volition.
Aspen rumble into aromatic heaps
the strong leafy fanfare of suggestion
invites me into her watery den.
Lay me down, deep in her fluffy wisp
strip my limbs with burnished fervor
dare my fallacy to vaporize the stars.
Who set a snare to snag whom?
Entanglements are like gnawed limbs
of infatuation and aspiration.
Full Beaver Moon ceaselessly tempts
a deluded frolic fringing the void
illusions steadfastly intact.
Any artery of clarity be dammed
pour me another shot of moondust
pastures of pleasure must liquify.
Plunge bulbs of ornate potential
bury the vernal vow in the depths
as yonder wintry solstice zigzags.
