The moon and I have time tonight
to give the year a fair review,
to talk about the times that we
were bloodied, halved, in hiding,
and the light we had to borrow
since we can’t emit our own.
The river where I found her bathing
lies beneath a satin shell;
the arbor where she saw my sin
is pulsing in the season’s breath.
I try to guess how many strophes
have been written in her name,
and wonder if a single soul
has ever penned a line for me.
I’m just the moon – I can’t write poetry,
she says, but otherwise I would
and I believe her.
