Judith Werner


The moon is rising, almost full,

on the lightning-struck field.

Beyond the hills, the high tide’s pull

opens what’s sunk and sealed.

All dark is silvered in these hours:

burnt stumps, beleaguered oaks

moon-plated into elfin towers

that daylight hides as hoax.

Shy, raccoons hear tongues of rain

calling them from the creek—

all gargoyle masks washed fair again

as night begins to speak.