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