A Salute to

The Moon

With wide gray eyes, your mouth agape,
you seem to try but cannot look away.
As soon as the Sun goes down, the mice will play.
Then lovers tell you even to your face
of foolish, nasty dreams; they can’t escape,
so they confide in you and plead for grace.

But you are still a child, a virgin goddess.
When Mother sat you down to have the talk —
his what? in where? — you scowled and took a walk.
You’ve made yourself more distant ever since:
athletic as Diana, lithe and modest.
Other girls get giggles when you wince.

Unblinking Moon, ever more withdrawn,
the day will come, we’ll look, and you’ll be gone.

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Karl Stull is a retired copywriter and editor. He began in textbook publishing and moved on to marketing. Now he writes for the love of words.