Sometimes only poetry can heal: reading it and writing it. Sometimes only poetry can express what is too painful, to real, too joyful to attempt in prose.  This week some of my writing has turned into poetry – here’s an example.


Trees’ shimmying green leaves

Lifting limbs toward

The Moon, whose wisdom has raised

Many children.

Corn sticks, peach cobbler,

Summer evening walks with the dogs.

She has wailed with me,

A far off wolf’s cry,

And held my tears

In her corona.

I step softly up the stairs to bed

Baby blanket of moonlight on my side:

A visitation through the skylight.

I curl next to my naked sleeping wife.

Lady Moon herself whispers to me

To sleep,

To motherhood.

© 2012, Rebecca Gingrich-Jones