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.