Half moon dives into the chill, pulls out a fish.
Sky shimmies up the pole.
After the gills open like a paper bag,
I breathe into the dark, once, twice, then hold it
closed in my fist. When you open it, out flies the wind.
It was always there, caught
like a fish in the mouth of the moon
Margie Duncan lives in New Jersey with her husband, Brian, and two tuxedo cats. When she retired from the business side of academia, she returned to writing poetry and looking out the window. She spends some waking time hiking in the woods. Her poems have appeared in Thimble, ONE ART, Rust & Moth, Lily Poetry Review, and Gyroscope Review.
© 2024, Margie Duncan
Halfway Down the Stairs 