blue moon blues in poetry

in the earliest spring
up here in the north county
on the lonely roads
in the dead of the night
if there's a full enough moon
when the trees are bare
if you have enough imagination
with the right kind of eyes
you can look up at that moon
and you can pretend yourself
a miracle

you can look out at the skyline
at the moon on the horizon
a tableau only sparsely broken up
by the occasional farmhouse
by the random ancient billboard
and pretend that the skeletal trees
still weeks away from having leaves
and you can pretend
that those trees washing that bright moon
in and out of existence
you can pretend that the moon
is blinking its light in and out
turning on and off
just for you
just for you

and yeah
it's just pretend
but for that string of moments
it's a miracle
just for you
on the lonely roads
in the north country