“What It Isn’t” by Carol Causin


It isn't in a timely matter, or like a crescent moon,
Soft and silky, you can't hide.
Into the dark of night,
Or anywhere.

Wisped away, and sitting on the end,
Of my finger tips.
Each one has a home,
Or does it?

It isn't fashionably late, or like a harvest moon,
Orange and transparent from afar.
I can't hold it in the palm of my hand.
Or can I?