The Evocation of Thirteen Moons

Amid falls of red tattered paper, I stood below this blue moon.
Fountains and fire-flowers were my burnt offerings to the Old Moon.

Days ago, rose petals dried to blood and parchment. From a heart-shaped box,
bottom-layer chocolate nougats did not sate my hunger, Moon.

For these Beloved Days, veiled in violet was this crucifix.
Without meat, I was, until Maundy Thursday of the Lenten Moon.

Beneath the third night, when sakura rained as petals, we two cheered
“Kampai!” to sake in clinking porcelain cups under Pink Moon.

Honeybees in dusk home to hive to dance figure-eights, to waggle
directions to macadamias and not to the Flower Moon.

On the Edge of the Reef, rice coral spawned conjugating clouds.
Reflected upon the surging littoral tide, the new Rose Moon.

Cirrus ice crystals scouted far sky—heralds of the storm anvil—
leaving in their wake a winter halo around the Thunder Moon.

With a Gewürztraminer, I toasted the chair opposite.
Not apology enough were cheesecake tortes beneath the Grain Moon.

We rolled dice over paper, over pencils for crits, not fumbles.
Spinach-garlic pizza fueled our role-playing by Harvest Moon.

For these front-door masquerades, I handed out bite-sized treats as proof
against potential tricks during this hallowed evening’s Sanguine Moon.

Smothered beneath nightfall, from the smoldering last harvest of cane
rose sultry blue smoke braids; the secret to a copper Frosty Moon.

Hand-wrapped for nieces, for nephews, but never for my own, presents.
Who shall carry the name Salvador beyond the Long Night’s Moon?

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