Moontime

The moon sang to her bones
and she rose up, beating the dance into the lush
grass, arms held out as in embrace,
in prayer.

Her body undulated like a river and she entered the
pulse of her own rhythm. She was meant to
dance wildly in solitude while others
shielded their hearts from her
blaze.

The woman would shed her skin the way she
shed her blood, whisper words of comfort
to those left behind.

Asks for no surety, makes no bonds,
marks the day with praise, fondles the red circle
around her waist. The woman dances

skin to skin with the moon, with the dirt
under her feet, with the song that breathes
up from her gladness.