The Gypsy Moon
( after Federico Garcia Lorca )
The cream of the gypsy moon
on this night of green, rising
to its apex as a deeper blush
of a blood orange that children
cannot eat, to leave it intact
lest the old gypsies mourn.
Two lovers walking white horses
on the lake’s shore, are grieved
to not sit astride, to admire
the bath of reflected silver
on each other’s face from the path the moon has taken.
That their love is not welcomed
by the stillborn water, isolated
and fading into the green night
while she bleeds in silence,
unable to hide in veiled mists
on her veranda of high birth.