Clair de Lune
We came upon
a hillside cloister
in winter’s silent retreat
the fixed end of our forage
past the keeper of the watch
dark-adapted to catch faint quanta
Inside, a hand fingered the black keys
as a sea of fog hemmed and hawed
and unspooled loose ends
that gapped the ridges
to shape and shadow
a blue moon
Sam Hersh, a lapsed psychophysicist, lives at the foot of Mount Diablo, with his muse, Jan, and plays at beaches named after saints. By day he figures in the Valley of Heart’s Delight. By night, he rewrites poetry, twists porcelain and refreshes lactobacillus sanfranciscensis to perfect sourdough.
His poems appeared in Sixfold, The Ina Coolbrith Circle Gathering, Monterey Poetry Review and the Scribbler.
The Ekphrastic Review
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