The moon is not white
nor silver nor grey
The moon is aged
like a familiar lover
She gapes full and round
a yellowed parchment poem
Her rhythm slow above the treeline
Her rhyme cuts cloud and sky
Like a tired old tooth
too knowing and known to be bashful
The clouds catch nothing of an unseen sun
a musty grey-blue breath of morning
The sky above senses her young lover’s approach
blushing lilac on painted lips
The faithful moon in her perfect place
smiles imperfectly and wakes me in a kiss