Luna Sure sign of summer, the pale translucence of the luna’s green wings, the green of emerging blades of grass, or new rose leaves. How such delicacy battles her way through thunderstorms, clouds, the dust of a dry summer, how her path is unerring; she returns every time, not herself, but a replica, someone born from her eggs. In April, too early for lunas, one appeared anyway, flapping at the back porch window Let me in. Walking outside, I bathed in her … [Read more...]