Rings Around The Moon

Late at night, the maiden fair

Leans out her window.

Icy, crystal-laden air

Numbs the lungs within her chest

And steals away her breath.

Three rings around the moon

The maiden sees 

And imagines witch voices in the night

Canting tales of death and fright

That lunar circles foretell.

The voices are but the winter winds

That swirl and swell

Among the trees

Yet they fill her heart with dread,

Provoking vampire images in her head.

She sees again the deer she saw that day

Sprawled dead on the highway.

A phantom shadow shrouds the moon,

Staining black the hill.

Then shines the moon anew, ringed still.

Ann’s Song

My daughter sang a solo

Her voice rang true and clear

Just as my grandfather’s had

Another time, one long-ago year

And I in wonder

As she sang in church today

Could not help but ponder

The mystery of DNA

I asked myself:

This gift of song – 

Where in our family tree

Could its origin be?

Which generation 

first saw it come?

And by what random decree

Is it passed on only to some?

Oh, lucky Ann to be one!