Bliss: Gail Carson Levine Poetry

In the half-light of a fall full
moon the trees throw shadows
with day-sharp outlines.
The roses by the patio
have swallowed a double dose
of red. Those dahlias whose weight
broke their stems click
back and forth like clock
pendulums. The crickets
drown out the interstate.

I smell the coffee-scent
of distant skunk just as my dog freezes.
A rabbit darts between the sugar maple
and the shrubs. The dog lunges
against his leash. I'm thinking

that the moon is often clouded over
the whole time it's full. Months
go by without the radiance;
still, how long can I stand here
before boredom sets in
even with my dog and this precious night
for company

and do I dare to say even to myself
what's precious?
The dog sits. Taking a chance,
I kick off my shoes
and bring a handful of clover to my nose,
the scent greening my mind
as it blows open