Moon
Hiking home after dark, the moon distracts me
as only moons can do, she slides through clouds,
shows me gilt mica on a gnarled tree stump
the trail flashes bright, then dark again.
The silent trees.
A bird clucks, I knock a rock into the dark,
hear the wild splash in the creek
ten meters below.
Contingency! How easy to step off the trail,
miss the point, lose everything with one false step.
To end this hike, I need moonlight,
the ranger’s hut, my beat-up jeep.
To end this poem, find the moon.
Kathryn D. Temple has taught at Georgetown University for almost thirty years but only began writing poetry during the pandemic. Her latest work has appeared in Streetlight, Fauxmoir, Delmarva Review, and 3Elements, among others. She has published two academic books on law & emotions and many essays in academic journals. Find her on the Chesapeake Bay or at https://georgetown.academia.edu/KathrynTemple and https://medium.com/@templek
Grand Little Things 