Pocosin Lake Moon Threshing
Thunderstorm the red wolf howls
deep in the cathedral trees
between the field and a lake on the hill.
The rainwater of the shallow lake
preserves ancient canoes on the bottom
resting for a further journey.
Shells clatter like teeth on the beach
to honor the body of a drowned deer,
I rattled back with my steps.
Eye of the bone needle thread with hair
seals the world in a skin bag calling
back to the shadow of the wolf.
Hidden within this dark sphere,
I birthed a sovereign purpose to inherit
legacies of the red moon threshing.
John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His poems paint shifting faces on mountains otherwise featureless. Red Paint Hill published his collection, Ring the Sycamore Sky.