Moon, you shine a silver gazed orb
in an August sky. Stars absorb
in silence, how mortals’ weep; sighs
for you: white witch of darkened skies.

In your arms, of shadows and light,
summer fairies dance in delight,
while lovers bloom and grow en masse
and sadness withers like the grass.

From you, endearing gilded globe
clad in Isis’ radiant robe,
whispers of fancy, nightly reign
willing bared troubles, to wane.

Quaint ball of a celestial sphere,
you, who make the obscure air clear,
must, in due time with grief declare
this summer’s end, by your cold stare.

Still, you glow, albeit less nobly,
duty bound to, quite probably,
weaving dreams of summers to come -
nearby, waiting, past twilight’s glum.

Yldara/M. Stanphill 170807147