she called it
an indian moon
that giant orange orb
staring balefully
down at us
in the too bright night
as the world
seemed soft around us

i learned later
it was called
a harvest moon
which always happily
reminded me of
neil young’s
heart of gold
and her long brown hair

there was magic
in the crisp
autumn air
where the moisture
seemed frozen in the air
as she sat close
as i yearned
to put my arm around her

there
under the light
of the harvest moon
a dream took root
the tendrils snaked
their way down
around my still
unbroken heart

and the wind blew
tossing strands of
her hair
across my face
which was as close
as we ever got
to a moment even if
it was a moment for one

but it still sits
playing silently
in some dusty hall
in a long untread
corridor of my mind
flickering in an
orangish light along
the dank walls of memory