

Moon Morning
As I walk the old neighborhood,
I note the changes—
the roses that Betty tended are not in bloom,
the tall house sold; young children live there now, toys strewn across the lawn.
Clyde would love knowing them.
Lynn stops me as I pass.
”Do you know me?” He asks.
I can’t recall, but we talk anyway.
The moon hangs on to the morning,
losing its full,
returning to new.
Margaret Simon, draft
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