I lie in wait of the reluctant moon <br />on a bed of grass that stands, listening. <br />What promises forthcoming when <br />at last she intrudes upon the firmament, <br />heralding the day of night's usurpation? <br />Subtlety shall be the watchword, surely- <br />no sharp casting of opinionated shadow, <br />as the creatures of her ebb and flowing <br />come forth with hidden shape and killing eye. <br />A sympathetic monarch she is not; still, <br />she strikes an unobtrusive note of parity <br />against which the symphony of umbrageous <br />life is played in fields of forgiving dusk. <br />She is the queen of deep and magnetic waters, <br />and the soul of the lesser creation. <br />Her devotees emerge to pay their respects, <br />offering the sacrifice of their rhythmic gestures, <br />each attuned to her slightest vagary <br />through the phases of her cyclical temperament. <br />Her eye is upon me now, and though my mind <br />shall always be the slave of her diurnal <br />counterpart, tonight I belong to her.<br /><br />metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lunacy-3/
