Pink Moon Rising

by Fred Vaughan

I see a pink moon rising
Like a mushroom from green, but graying earth.
Streamers of mold lose hold,
Quivering for a moment in release.

It is Fall and night is falling in shapes
Beneath the leaves that tumble.
And piercing through these falling dead
Icy fingers snatch each treasured piece of darkness.

Consummated now, the putrid kiss is but an echoed hiss.
The pallid under-mushroom pink has broken loose
And drips with poignant stench upon the ripples
A meaning I purpose now never to remember.