Without a sound
The moon arcs high
a cratered orb tracking time.
It slips beyond my quixotic experience
beyond the reach of my rational hands.
Pale and round the silent drum,
glistens speckled silver-bright.
The night cats howl, the winds lash out,
blowing and tossing life’s pages about,
There for an intellectual moon’s delight,
New pages that need to be learned.
Lyrics of a song, fragments of a tune
Searching for and nearly found.
Looking for one more story to tell,
The moon arcs high
Without a sound.