This moon looms large and low
rolling over the horizon
struggling skyward under its girth,
lumbering to climb the very trees
caught in silver silhouette,
laboring to carry the weight aloft
of lovers caught in its pull.
Sun not fully set,
the eager celestial orb impatient
to exert its influence,
to be captured by the throngs,
those paparazzi pens of poets
wide-eyed in wonderment,
and staring back mournfully,
soulfully, bemusedly;
the spectacle it must see on rising,
amazed as an artist whose work
points to him in awe.
And spilling its beauty infinite
in graceful glide above
casts a surge of silver
through the windows of my soul.
And I have no magic to express
that moment of loveliness.
No comments:
Post a Comment