Dear Moon

Salutations my fair-faced confidant.

How Time has teased your arrival;

Whilst Sun boast grandeur of intoxicant color in heart-felt adieu,

I waited and watched, tumultuous questions burned.

Yearning for you,

in any of your many forms, each perfect.

Impervious exemplar, ever-phasing steadfastness,

how is it you, seer of all, can so embody calm

as to bestow it upon the whole night by being?

Undaunted by wrong or fair,

here you are serving your role

as I hope to with mine in full credence to good.

Please humor my radical candor as always you have:

I feel lost in a world of found things.

I watched the cows with their calves, trudging through dewy grass,

Sun was up and warming their backs. I pondered their lives:

circle-fenced pastures; spirals to an end

and I wept.

I hear a midnight bird cackling though beetle’s hum:

I feel the mockery. What of him, perched on branch high?

What does he make of your shadow’s slum?

Is he free as I perceive him to be?

It won’t matter when he meets hurtling panels of glass that smash.

But, I digress.

Curious labor, man doth endure, chasing a tail nature never gave.

So pretty we are, cackling in our stalls,

Take our eggs and eat their bloody hearts out.

For the land of sad, home of the mad:

every woe there’s a pill, every will there’s a way

To take contrary instincts and script them away.

Modern begets archaic measured by your hand.

The connection

between human and Earth, Moondust and sand,

the preachers of science / prayer’s raised hands,

waxes and wanes with your tides.

I write now for guidance, what do I need to know?

I write to you a student; indentured pursuit,

for your masterful deflection of treachery and reflection of light.

I seek your peace in truth and commit to dissemination.

Lend me your secrets, I’ll hold them dear.

Where do we go from here, what does your vast history have to say?

There must be a way, lead me from doubt.

Silenced turmoil in your shine, a slivered-salute.

How I have missed your company and I must confess

classic infatuation. Of lighter notes,

if I close my eyes, breathe deep and slow, I can feel you, lifting always.

I can smell you (impossible as it may be), sweet night jasmine.

I can taste you, coconut meat and milk.

Satiated; still, with you.

Thank you, teacher. I will command no more from you now,

as you have Night-Things to watch,

and accept in the breadth of your scope.

Changed will be us both the next time we convene

as Dawn creeps on.

Sincerely, Me.