it seems the moon
won't say
goodnight

it lingers in the pale
blue sky of morning

sometimes round
and bold
sometimes a crescent
bowed
in shyness

an observer
it gazes quietly
the observed
it bares its soul

today
even as it fades
I try to read
its fullness

what can it tell
me?
in the lines
of its face
will I read the names
of others
who have watched
in wonder
its fading
then returning?

are the curves
and crests
an ancient flowing
hand
that gathered
history?

will I find life's answers
there?

or

has the moon
simply
written
to say
goodnight