Frost Moon, November
Cold and desiccated, the full moon
Broods just above the hills,
Its light through autumn haze
Like dust rising from ice.
Rooted the hard way into stone
And exposed to inhuman weather,
Nothing ever disturbs it inside
Its exoskeleton of loneliness.
Doves on a stunned afternoon
Flutter from dust to branch and back again,
Gray and taupe, seeds of rain clouds
With nowhere to take root.
Don Thompson was born and raised in Bakersfield, California, and has lived in the southern San Joaquin Valley for most of his life. He has been publishing poetry since the early sixties, including a dozen books and chapbooks. For more information and links to his publications, visit his website San Joaquin Ink (don-e-thompson.com).