My daughter texted me last night to say the supermoon

stole her breath when she saw it. I wanted to rise

and bear witness too, but I had already trekked to the edge

of slumber, my body a willful slave to bed.

Still, when the moon calls, I obey

and move my legs, pink and meaty as hams,

outside where I crane my neck to see only her glow

growing above the neighbor’s house

that blocks her. I wait for her to rise. She takes

my breath too when I see her round gold face.

I’ve never seen her so gold. She can never dart

in the sky but plods like that old unsinkable submarine

of someone else’s dream. I am a lumbering bear

who won’t sleep until yardsticks break underfoot

on my way to my den. In the morning,

I creep out of my cave into the yard to see

with my red eyes the bright now-white high-hanging moon

among the branches of white pine and cedar.

This morning cup of coffee steams with the sweet pond

of sleep still dripping from me as I stand and praise

the morning and my daughter for this moon.