Mistress Moon

I told myself it was foolish
to write poetry by moonlight.
Silver-misted shadows
do not release muses
or magic
Though it does tease imagining.
Crinkled waves of moonlight cried.
A lonely goose knelled seranades.
Owls echoed inquiry.
The silvered silhouette of one
Great Blue Heron
stood sentry over my hesitant words.

My stark moonshadow mocks.
She has more business here than I.
Ethereal she is, smoke but no substance.
She dares to flirt with moon fairies,
Not I.

I have spurned magic and muses for
the bold, gold light of day,
brassy and loud,
Who needs silver shrouds,
fey fancies?
Surely not cynical me.

But when I could resist no longer
the siren call of beauty,
My magical moon mistress,
I know I heard the waves lap applause
that I
simply I
would scale the sheer walls
of sense and propriety
and dip one toe
into her scattered silver path.
Only to realize I cannot walk on water.

At least,
not yet.

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