Solstice

 
The arc of a solstice moon
is at its zenith overhead,

I race across dark emerald,
zoysia shimmering with zinc.

I leap from the ziggurat
To the spiraling tower steps,

And lunge upward, two by two
Winded, clutching blood zinnias.

Offerings of zwieback and
zucchini in my zibeline

A poor and devout zealot
Is all I am and what I bring,

When I reach the top at last
as a zeppelin cloud casts over

When the moment is at hand.