Once, we hid moons in earth,
reaching down to sable loam.
Now, tines shy, lifting gently,
we begin to gather them in.
Hauling up, bundles of small satellites,
Dark drops. Another moon floats up
between branches of cherry.
Small moons bring night home,
geosmin, thick and dense, a full tide coming in,
held in canvas beneath polished granite.
They wait to ghost up again, to rise
through fire and water, in cauldron dark pans.
Ali Jones’ work has appeared in The Interpreter’s House, Proletarian Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin Poetry, Atrium, Café Writers, Laldy, Green Parent magazine and The Guardian. Her pamphlets Heartwood and Omega are forthcoming with Indigo Dreams Press.