Hunter's moon and Tremble, poems by Theresa Whitehill

      Hunter’s Moon

      Standing in the shadow
      of a walnut tree on the night
      of the Hunter’s Moon, at the
      moment the mockingbird
      begins his inquiry of the night,
      letting the fragrance
      of the moon dissolve
      on the tongue, becoming
      a distillation of this planet’s
      longing for itself.

      * * *


      I want to speak to you
      of beautiful things before
      the light has a chance to leave
      the sky so you can see
      the tremble in the word
      “imaginable,” and the way
      the throat opens up before
      saying, “love,” “serendipity,”
      “solace.” From there, it’s a small
      step to this moment, this
      silence of flower petals.

      * * *


      Je veux te parler de belles choses
      avant que la lumière n’ait le temps
      de quitter le ciel
      ainsi tu pourras voir
      le tremblement du mot
      imaginable, et la manière dont la gorge
      s’ouvre avant de dire, amour, hasard,
      réconfort. De là il n’y a qu’un pas à faire
      pour arriver à ce moment,
      ce silence des pétales.

      Translation into French, Lydia Rand

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