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Peggy Hale Bilbro

Full Moon

Mangos. Melons. Tomatoes. Peaches. Two handfuls. Not enough, or more than enough. After losing my own mangos, small as they were, I am suddenly aware of the variety and beauty of breasts, how they bounce and snuggle together in an intimate embrace; the young ones so casually pert and innocent that they defy any effort to subdue them; the perfectly round ones that mound up into a beckoning décolletage most likely the result of a little augmentation and to my eye not nearly as interesting; the full moon globes of nursing mothers weighted with love;  grandmothers’ more like udders gently swinging telling of a life of giving and nurturing, now a soft resting place for any small body needing comfort. Breasts everywhere I look. I don’t know if I am jealous or fascinated, or both. I try not to stare, but my god! what breathtaking abundance of life! 

the weight 
of what we don’t see
till it’s not there

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About the Author

Peggy Hale Bilbro lives in the southern United States with her husband and a house full of green babies. She writes long poetry as well as haiku, senryu, tanka, haibun, and other short form verse on any topic that floats into her mind or across her path.