FULL MOON RISING

I know all the old horses
and the men who rode them
to their ridgeline bleachers.

Full moon August rises atop
her perfect breast perfectly
after all these years, centuries,

eons—I am relieved from
the world inside this galaxy,
this tug of war for power,

gravity without compassion.
I lean toward the heavens
and the far ridgetops,

send roots deep
to good water and wait
until my moment is up.