How long have I been writing about the full moon? I am really not sure. Even long before I started this blog I wrote about it. It is a subject that is as near to my heart and my life and even my beliefs as anything could be.
The last few nights the waxing moon has been hidden by storm clouds, it seems it rained every day in June and certainly every night. Very late , and only briefly did the clouds part enough to see the orb of the moon, and the cloud quickly drew their curtain of cloud layers back over its face, until not even a faint glow was visible. But even though it was much too brief, I saw it.
Buck Moon, the bucks antlers, though still covered with "velvet" are growing, and I have even seen a few of late with the awkward looking beams, divided into clubbed points, and well on their way to becoming distinctive antlers. The Haying Moon, it will be haying time soon, if there are ever three dry days in a row, the Farmers Almanac even predicts the most likely days for you. Hay to feed the animals is most often cut and bailed on the first 3 dry days in July, hay that hasn't dried will mold, or worse yet start to compost, there by generating enough heat to ignite itself. Which brings us to the Thunder Moon, so named because of the many, many thunder storms lighting up the night sky , kinda makes one wonder about fireworks and the 4th of July, doesn't it? Full Mead Moon, I will raise my glass to that, I have made mead, and can attest to it's wonderfulness. It is also called the Cherry Moon, the Fledgling Moon, and this year there will be two full moons in July.
Winter wheat is also harvested now, and I have a vivid memory of sitting in the grain bin while the wheat was being brought in, I couldn't have been more that 4 or 5, It was great fun to "help" the men. This year, a friend sent me a poem, that reminded me of those long ago Julys. And of just how much work July is on a farm. And how the longer daylight hours of The Moon After Solstice make it possible to get it done.
Yes, July's full Moon is The Full Farmer's Moon, anyway the name I hhave chosen name for it.
My father could not make a poem,
but setting his course by yonder pine,
straight and true he plowed a line
across the field.
My father could not juggle words,
but with the birth
of golden wheat in summer sun,
he coaxed a poem out of the earth.
- Mary Ferrell Dickinson