MoonRise

written for the writer's cramp

MoonRise

It is written (somewhere)
that after death our souls
call to the moon that cold pit-less stone
and they lock in rhythm to her orbit.
Our souls wander, lost
among her peaks and powders
and sometimes rain rose petals
back to Earth.

My mother died at 57,
a hemorrhage
after years of grey insanity.
I hated her in my childhood,
for her abandonment.
Ignored her as a teenager,
for the embarrassment.

Now, adult and grandmother,
I raise my upturned palms
on full moon nights
and hope to catch
a petal
from my mother.