JOSEPH MILLS

Harvest Moon

After dinner, I walk the dog and because it’s already dark, 
we turn right instead of left which means we go up a hill
rather than down into a park. As we climb, the moon seems
to push its way into the sky and rises through the trees, 
becoming so large and luminous that I stop, unable to continue. 

Unlike the horse in Frost’s poem, the dog is used to such paralysis 
from me. She sniffs tree trunks and leaf piles, biding her time, 
while I gape upwards. Stunned.

  Eventually, I take out my phone
– not to take a picture which would only reduce this glowing globe 
to a dot, a disappointment, a mockery – but to message my daughter 
who is grown and gone. I text “The Moon!” and she knows this
means, “Go outside!” She knows this means, “The universe is 
beautiful, isn’t it?” She knows this means, “I miss you. I love you.”

I feel I should do more. I should knock on doors and tell people 
to come out. I’m not possessive. There’s enough moon
to go around. I know some of my neighbors and know 
they might appreciate such witnessing, but I also recognize 
they might be more impressed with my “sensitivity” than 
the moon itself, which would be frustrating. I deserve no credit. 
Ten minutes ago, I didn’t know it would be a full moon tonight.
How is that possible? Why has this risen miracle again caught me 
by surprise? Why haven’t I put on my calendar a recurring event 
or To Do item: “Be Astounded!”

I don’t knock on anyone’s door. 
Instead I hold my dog and text my child, who, having gone outside, 
texts back, and we are happy to be in contact, miles apart, the moon 
connecting, the moon astonishing, our mundane lives spectacular.

A faculty member at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts, Joseph Mills has published seven collections of poetry, most recently Bodies in Motion which consists of poems about dance. His book This Miraculous Turning was awarded the North Carolina Roanoke-Chowan Award for Poetry for its exploration of race and family.