Moonlit night,
Its lantern’s journey lazy as crickets rasp to mark the season.
Clouds chase the beacon as it drifts,
Made as moths to search for guidance and illumination.
Pursuers paint a maiden’s hand in ghostly procession,
Reaching out.
Stretching forth.
Drawing light from the traveling orb.
Fingery wisps encompass and capture,
Occluding the Lunar Lady.
And, impossibly sneaking behind,
Crown the queen of night in mockery.
A twinkle above to herald the coronation.
Its messenger cannot be seen
While the moon’s power reigns.
And so, the fingers close.
Flickering darkness.
Bright eyes and starry smile linger for a moment.
Greeting, warning, promising.
And as the clouds depart, the crickets resume their singing.
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