Have you seen the moon tonight?
She is orange, fat, and riding low;
she whispers, and I listen
with careful tongue and seashell ears
and she rolls across the sky
lazy, decadent; gluttonous
for us to hear her secrets
and make our wishes upon her sister stars.
What would we wish for?
For something peeking out from behind
the clouds, a flirtatious wind
making love to our sails;
a dream inspired by paths not taken;
a forgotten attic, dusty boxes filled
with a special kind of regret,
the kind that smolders like a dying
campfire, with bats dancing overhead.
Can you hear the cricket song?
We slake our thirst on their symphony
and try to keep from going mad.
I always try to find the three stars of Orion’s belt
comforted that they have always been there
a sturdy bridge, crumbling bricks
with no troll beneath.
The moon smiles
as though she is keeping a delicious secret
and we will see a little less of her tomorrow.