by Tom Sexton
I like to think the miners looked up and sighed
when they emerged from the maze
of tunnels and saw the moon rising
overhead as bright as the gold
they blasted from the unwilling rock,
gold that kept their families from the cold.
I like to think one or two stooped to pick
a handful of berries for their children
while they followed the moon’s light down
to the boomtown they called home,
berries as ripe as the full moon now
spilling its light like honey from a spoon.