The moon dripped silver, bleeding through
scratched windows, dusting the yard, drawing
the eyes upward into favorable suspense.
The moon is the bride of night’s sky, a lover in
plain sight with enormous arms for sharing,
Unless restrained by clouds.
The moon creates dreams while teasing the curious
to gaze up innocently, unconcerned with time.
The moon illuminates a path to home
or a special place without a name.
The moon makes the ocean reflect its beauty,
fracturing its light over the surface.
The moon creates gray flannel shadows,
their movements suspicious and tall.
The moon owns the night.
Roger Singer 