Posted by: Paul Chiariello | February 8, 2011


the grey moon waning

howls with me

when it waxes

we sing

we are the trees

teasing out a song of growth

as the bells and leaves we wear

on our hips

sing against the wind

and as the moon-tide jazz

urges our deep roots

to seek deep wells

for a deeper rush

and a song of notes

made of a certain sustenance

of mineral ebbs and flows

of Autumns and of Winters

of Springs

a song and a revolving

solstice of rebellion

in the moon’s new inertia

and explosion of growth


~Paul Chiariello


  1. The word moon caught my attention on the poetry tag.

    Very nice poem.

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