According to the Farmer’s Almanac, April’s full moon is also called the Pink Moon. It’s not pink, but more of a golden hue (supposedly–around here it is more likely to be grayed out due to clouds). The reference to pink comes from pink flowers that tend to bloom this time of year in the northeastern part of North America. You can read more of what the Farmer’s Almanac says about the Pink Moon at this link.
The Pink Moon doesn’t occur until later this month, April 23, but no matter. People go around naming things and talking about them regardless.
Pink Moon
From above, all differences are blurred a bit.
Homes, houses, shacks made of paper or tin,
lit by one moon which waits while
we pretend anyone could become president,
then turn our tongues to how we’d like a turn
ourselves. We tend to hate masters,
no matter their merit,
which makes it hard to have a God.
I wonder whether letting the Pilgrims go off
to a new continent was a good idea. God
is not a gambler, I’ve heard, but I gather
He doesn’t mind a dicey chance or two.
Or how could you explain free will?
The pink moon: neither democracy nor despot. We
won’t concede others their job descriptions,
because we want their jobs done right. So, bloom,
already, flowers. Brighten up the place, like the
moon wants to brighten the night. Is every job
really best done by the one who is closest
to the factory floor, by which logic done by
he who sees the least and God so far away
ought not be God? What’s the factory floor
anyway when the fields are raw with potential?
A place we make more than enough,
ensure we don’t run out…
And we can’t
define the moon either: a lump of rock and dust,
a lump made of lumps, some craters and canals,
criss-crossing, and… See? It can’t be
said. Forty-nine-thousand cases came
off the production line. Then the closest guy
found the spelling error, and noted it was
the job of someone higher up to catch it.
Thank God for God who is beyond
the moon and pettiness. I hope. Sometimes
He seems human but I think that’s for us.
Like you let kids think you’re one of them.
We want to be what we hate while we’re hating it.
Neither is the moon human. Hire me this one,
post this role. Wanted: one who has
thought things through; who knows exactly
what is the moon, and what it’s doing up there.
Write in pink, please, for potential.
~~
Hope you’re enjoying National Poetry Month, which began in 1996! The best thing about poems is the variety out there, the ability to change your mind about whether one speaks to you or not, and a sense of surprise or wonder. Like opening cupboard doors not knowing what you will find inside.