Monday the Moon--A Diary

A quarter white and bright against blue charcoal skies, Not a cloud, cirrus or otherwise to cover you. Do I see your “man” curling on his back? The little dog pulls on a web night leash, You are half, behind drifting shadow mists, Does your “man” carry a sack? Disappointment reins as night clouds gain, Gain the sky for their own, yet perhaps Your “man” is covered with a blanket of foam. You burst your fullness, say “Here am I? Keep your eyes peeled to the sky, I know you, I’ll guide you “man in the” home. Yes, my man carries a sack full of lucky stars.