Waxing Gibbous by Daye Phillippo

Waxing Gibbous

We sit around the bonfire, watch the farmer
across the road pull the red auger
to yet another field, tractor growling
as it drags the heavy long-neck, slowly
down the gravel road while we stretch
beside the fire toasting marshmallows
and watching embers, the old sun settling
behind the trees like a fire going dim.
Night coming on. Jupiter rising
on the eastern horizon. Our son tends
the fire, speaks of being a Boy Scout,
but not of the possibility of deployment.
His wife holds the baby, her first bonfire.
All of us eagle eye and warn the three
older children who are, of course, drawn
to the blaze. We listen closely for coyotes
and hear a great horned owl’s lonesome
from the darker darkness of the pines.
The wise old barn cat is a shadow lingering,
edge of our circle, keeping his distance
from owls and unpredictable children
hepped on too much sugar and the thrill
of being outdoors at this hour. Stars
and a waxing gibbous moon, white light
that glows on our grandson’s blond head
and illuminates the water I pour, my cup
to his sippy cup, moonwater, I tell him,
cold and refreshing. Ahhhhhh! we say,
same time, same way after taking a swig.

*

Daye Phillippo taught English at Purdue University and her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Presence, Cider Press Review, Twelve Mile Review, One Art, Shenandoah, The Windhover, and many others. She lives and writes in rural Indiana where she hosts a monthly Poetry Hour at her local library. Thunderhead (Slant, 2020) was her debut full-length collection.