Sap moon, grass moon, milk moon, rose moon--
she's new in town, her almanac
weds farms to skies from March through June. 

July: two soda fountain stools,
green orbs of leatherette and chrome,
swing round, he talks of molecules

and stars. Come hay moon songs pulse from
the neon jukebox, planets pattern
everything from shirts to gum.

By August zany drive-in plots
mix up the spheres. Space aliens
make love and war, earth astronauts

blast laser guns at her tanned feet
extended toward a corn moon sky
above his borrowed car's back seat.

Fruit moon: she never figures out
why he decides they're through. She packs
for school, she asks around about

his brand new flame. The hunter's moon,
the beaver moon, they're all the same
to her, until one afternoon,

below a crescent on the wane,
she writes to say rose moons, hay moons                
still shine on him in Deer Isle, Maine,      

and all the everyday things worn
and sung and touched and heard and seen.
He can't recall the summer that she means.