Lunacy

Accompanying my dog this morning, I stopped
and stared at the moon as if rooted like one

of the trees through which she stared down. Does
she really control the tides? I do not think

so. Does she affect a woman’s cycle?
Perhaps. Does she whisper to the crazed ones

in their scrawled rooms, confirming their fears
and prodding them on in their muttered plots? I

suspect she does. Is her light really
cooler than the air through which she travels

to us, floating on birdbaths and in the hollow
stumps of long-dead oaks? Science might tell us.

One thing for me is not a question:
she has a voice, and it can be heard.

~ S. K. Orr