
That is the official name for the December full moon according to the Farmer's Almanac which has been spectacular here over the past week. Below is a poem Sarah Merrill wrote earlier this fall and kindly unearthed for us when I pleaded for a moon poem.
Gibbous Moon
A crisp morning in early autumn finds me standing optimistically
with my son by the big tree
at precisely seven-thirty, waiting for the school bus to arrive
and take my child away to someone else’s care and professional knowingness.
While we wait we watch our breaths gather before us and disperse,
gather and disperse, gather and so on until someone’s child points up to the sky.
A pale moon seems to hover too close.
“But mom, why is the moon here in the morning?”
I adjust my son’s backpack and consider how
with increasing frequency I do not have answers to the Questions.
How I’m saved by the pillow of virtual information
that cushions my constant sense of falling.
In the afternoon I lead my child back to the big tree
and I point up where the moon used to be. My wisdom is memorized:
That was a gibbous moon, you saw, Sweetie, precisely eighty-one percent—a waxing or waning moon that can look like a full moon but it’s not.
Even as my son is nodding his head I don’t really know what I’m talking about.
But anyway, my digital words disperse in the darkening afternoon,
already forgotten as he runs toward the house.
Sarah Merrill