My Lady the Moon
My lady is shy even
as she follows my journey
through that labyrinth of passageways connecting
the eternities, hiding behind
clouds or the earth itself.
To glimpse a silver crescent edge of her eye peeking
around a forest tree or through
breaks in the overcast,
having known the fullness of her countenance,
fills the soul with the heat of hope’s passion.
unlike the celestials
that mortals are afraid of failure yet
my lady, unlike the others, cowers
from success, of all things, intermittently
close then far, large then small, brighter
then dimmer, white then blue, hidden
completely then in full open view.
Whenever she hides,
as she always regularly does,
darkness gathers me and a terrible sadness
condenses my freedom into
painful loneliness, longing, looking
for any sign of her return.
You see, I’m in love with the moon . . . . everything
her solitary strength and her radiant softness
But I wonder can the moon love me and even if
has she the freedom to act thereupon,
the wherewithal to take a lover
or would such be paramount to treason
in the eyes of all those burgeoning lovers
who depend on my lady’s
to seal their own
romantic inspiration . . .
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