by Dawn Pisturino
Somehow, I always miss the yellow moon
That shines somewhere at the end of summer.
I see the stars on their velvet bed, soon
To be lost to the milky-white winter,
But Moon, I only see thee in autumn,
When the air is sweet and pungent with Death.
Then my senses 'waken from their doldrum,
And I long to cling, with icy-white breath,
To thy big, round fullness frozen brightly
In the eastern sky. Then I want to touch
Thy silky-smooth face gazing down nightly;
I want to raise my open hands and clutch
The silvery-white glow falling softly,
Like a satin gown, all around thee.
1980
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