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Moon Madness. It’s a good moon out there, which is about the only great thing about this day. Wednesdays are the hardest. Yesterday’s effort left me a little spiritually pooped, I think, and also, it’s just a long day, during which I saw my kids for about thirty minutes in the morning. That morning rush is horrible, and I’m not even particularly good at it. We arrive late.  A lot. I’m telling you all this because my boss, my beautiful and powerful boss, might read this and it will make her smile. I hope. 

Tonight’s moon is big and round and is NOT really causing the teens to become crazy. Or, when I left, at ten o’clock, they weren’t any crazier. That hardly ever happens when I work and the moon is full. They go werewolf, sometimes.  Or they all start crying at once.  But, that didn’t happen tonight, and that is a good moon.

This is a painting by Andrew Wyeth of the kind of moonlight it is out there: Wyeth, Moon Madness 1982

It is called Moon Madness. I’m going to write a poem about it so I can go to bed.


Moon Madness:

It makes me want to stay up and graze. One of the boys even asked to me tonight, do you ever

does the moon like this ever make you feel like,

feel like you just could or just might, just run into the neighbors field and kill a deer with your teeth?

No. But that is because it’s different for you. It hits you, the young, differently. See, it makes me feel,


That is deep, he says.

And I can’t tell him it’s not, that “I feel understood by the moon” is not deep unless you have just turned eighteen. And I can’t tell him that the reason I feel understood by the moon is that the clouds are doing this webby thing and also a halo around it, so that the moon looks like one giant breast in the sky. And that it is leaking the prettiest light. Because that would be inappropriate.

Maybe it’s both, though, he says, when I say it anyway in the interests of inquiry. Maybe the giant shining boob in the sky is telling you she understands, she just gets it,

that sometimes you have to howl.

That is deep, I tell him. Sometimes you have to.


Oh help me. Maybe the moon is even harder to write about than water. Damn you, nature! Why can’t I be Mary Oliver??? There just was not enough time.  Someday I’m going to write a poem about the moon and it’s gonna make you cry. I swear. It’s going to be so good. Later.  What does your moon look like? Happy Wednesday!