All insomnias, whether reactive, endogenous or apostrophe-induced, respond well to moonbathing, which raises levels of vitamin M in the blood.—Luna Medicine Quarterly
Moonbathing, one glows.
One becomes (if nude)
a composition of orbs, variously lit, according to phase.
Every season’s good if the weather’s fine.
A harvest moonbathe in an apple orchard
in earshot of the sea is always pleasant (ah, the lunar seas)
as is the sharp shiver when one divests oneself of winceyette at midnight
under a halo of ice
and even better the escapade in snow
two thousand feet above worry level with the moon’s smile sailing over the forest
A moonbath in spring is a spritz to the hibernated soul.
One skips back, freshly rinsed
with sparkling thoughts like moonwash gilds us all the same, O our beautiful bones!
Then those longest shortest nights in itch-hot sheets—
tick toss tick toss tick toss tick toss
until at last
you step out barefoot on the silver grass
balmed, becalmed, singing psalms
under that old rocket parking lot
Scientists say most of us have a deficiency.
Therefore, moon on, moon calf under a moon dog drinking moonshine—
under the old, under the new
under the wax, under the wane
under the blood, under the blue
mare luminescum. Soak it up.
Happy birthday Paula. With love and thanks for all you do for poetry in Aoteoroa. Power to your pen!