The Saintly Moon

Saintly MoonFor me, the Moon is never haunting but saintly,
Soft light upon the ground at night,
Face looks down with hint of mournful sadness,
But never overture of death drawn
Upon its pock-marked crest.

As it swells in waxing, I cannot gaze
But that heart sings old romantic songs—
At times of long-lost days and I was in my prime,
Filled with intense passion driving pulse.
Now I’m lucky if I hear a nightingale,
Long clear call, singing songs within the dark.

Though I kiss the Moon in Moon’s full light,
I confess some melancholy weight
As Moon wanes to next to nothing.
For me this is not New Moon but Lost Moon
As I stare and see only shimmering stars,
Though high tides detect her presence
With or without reflecting light.

Just as love seems to come and go,
So to the Moon has cycles, passing phases,
Forever teaching how Earth can be profaned—
Light lost as vitals fade to darker blue.
What can we do but suck up the fog
When clouds descend to ground themselves?
Even nightingales sing their hearts out
Even though ears be saturated with song.

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