Still

I have again
confused the Shell
station sign for
a brighter and fuller
moon than the one
that actually hung
in its place above
the town that
rests quietly,
winter's slow.
It is the season
to know
that when you
have bent down
the branches all
and pulled away
the fruit, the tree
only looks like a skeleton,
it's skin fallen to
the ground,
rotting in piles
raked together,
never carried to
the garbage.
Be still I say.
We are so
lucky
and so foolish,
sometimes one
cannot be distinguished
from the other.