Her legs hang low,
just above the night's whispering tide,
illuminated only by dawn's dim light.
Polar limbs and the nonlinear confide.
She does not hide. No, not on this night.
Her outstretched arms
question the supposed limitless oblivion.
For foot by mile, lightyear by revolution,
she has seen everything:
Loves enactment upon re-enactment,
The crying of the lost and lonely infant,
the rodent's of the night that creep and crawl along
a city's cobblestone streets,
and she has seen two worlds fall asleep
time and time again.
The moon has already heard forever
yet each night she listens to a different tune.
The moon is forever.
The light and the wise coccoon.