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The Moon Speaks
The moon never wavers or is ever still.
Steadfast, I whisper, that's my secret
just as the force that motions what sails or floats.
Look closer and observe that I'm far from perfect.
Bumped and nicked, history circles
stern-faced surface, of hinted pre-imaginable ages
flamed rock white with furious billow.
Rough valleys and silence trek my unseen miles
of end-alls or thresholds of mythic proportions.
I am intrique of solitary roundness, yet,
like every story I can present two sides
meaning loony or goddess. Darkness or light.
Note my fingers of mystery
that cradle craters and display phases
for your viewing pleasure.
For how many of you,
since the Olduvai Gorge
until the end of all time, have turned to
that splendid light, yes, not mine
as together, you and I
we wonder, we gaze
and wander infinite orbits farther,
yes, ever
farther into the coldest of nights.
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