Written after my shock at 9/11 turned into an endless grief
Sometimes, we have to leave the Earth.
Some times are bad times, war time, time
to learn how bad humans can be. That’s
when we order roses from the Moon.
Moon roses show up, brighter than summer
roses, pale and day-glo and neon
as if they were grown in an off-planet
hot house. They appear too good for this world.
We ordered four hot pinks, two purples, and two
creamy oranges, and they last as if their petals
were silk spun by Moon moths
in our winter cool solarium.
As proof of where they came from, the Moon is full.
At night, I can see our Moon roses longing for home.