Full Moon on Saint Helena's Island

Branches of the live oak

Utterly silent in the night,
     the long, twisted arm of the live oak
     reaches almost to my window.
I know that, in the day,
     a red-bird builds her nest there
     from bits of Spanish moss,
     chirping at each new piece
     she reclaims from the tangles.
But deep in the night, nothing stirs.
We are far, far from the world.
The sun has set over all the West,
     red and glowing,
     the West with its petty arguments,
     its power plays, its pissy lies,
the West of the patriarchy,
     dying pitifully like the sun.
The West is a vast, big ol’ mistake
     that’s sputtered out like a candle flame.
Silent. Silent.
The big ol’ moon moves imperceptibly.
The tree branches cast fantastic shapes
     across the ground, yellow and grey.
An owl hoots three times.  That’s all.
I gaze out the window,
     listening for the sea.




Annelinde Metzner
April 7, 2017

Marsh on Hunting Island

Grandmother tree at Ifetayo's house

Egret rookery