The first time, late in the afternoon,
we saw the full moon, 
it was lifting its chin
just above the horizon.

Against the pearl gray silk of sky
it was pale and thin
as a mother-of-pearl button.

We parked and went in to the supermarket. 
Thought of the moon and then forgot.
With a neutral sort of cheer, we bought
some necessary stuff, plus a treat
or two to compensate for—what?
I felt it but couldn’t say.

The second time we saw the full moon,
an hour or so on,
it had already risen
halfway up a blue-black sky;
its glow had begun to intensify;
it had rounded the third dimension.

It was so lovely I had to cry
“Look at the moon!” as if you or I
might never see one again.
 

Then you drove and we talked about politics.
With people, sublimity never sticks.
The woods on either side of the road
got darker and thicker
while the moon, fragmented, flickering
 

among the trees, remained content
not to be seen, omniscient,
nodding overhead.