Bone Moon

My people called it the bone moon.

A time of hunger.

A time of hope.

Life at the barest essential.

Black bear skin hugged tight around the shoulders.

Snow falling in clouds from shaken cedar boughs.

Woodsmoke curling up from the council house chimney.

Starvation like a penance and a prayer.


I meditate in warmth on this full moon in Leo.

I have a full belly.

Agarbatti smoke curls up from the altar with the

smell of a Hindu temple.

I do not know the council house

or the bear blanket

or the starvation.

But I know the hunger.

I know the hope.


© 2017 Deborah E. Moore

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