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The full moon dwindling from below,
a silent mystery in my backyard.
Passing cars don't even slow
as witchy clouds cross the flawed
disk. My hair lifts in the wind.

Once more my father held a lemon
between an an orange and a flaming candle.
"This is the earth. This the moon.
Watch its shadow." All we saw
was a man with fruit. My sister ran
off giggling. "Daddy's doing it again."

His gift of knowledge covered us
with his inarticulate love. Alone
now on my fragrant lawn among
the softly breathing trees, I watch
the scalloped moon reflect its fading
light until there is no more.

      — Lucile Blanchard