“Moonshine”

15 moons have passed since my pen first
inked the paper destined for your hands.

The Snow Moon followed the Wolf Moon,
and the Hunger Moon yearned, aching,
soothed only by the soft glow of the Pink Moon.

The Planter’s Moon blossomed brightly
into the Flower Moon. And the Moon of the Green Corn
turned beet red, erupting forth into the Blood Moon.

The Moon of the Falling Leaves,
the Wild Moon and sweet, Strawberry
Moon all came and quickly left.
The Hunter’s Moon reaped a
Harvest Moon, while the Storm
Moon wept in silent torrents.

But ah, the saddest and most
wounded of them all: the Moon of Long Nights.
Made of cheese, she stands alone.

And those are just the full moons.
New moons hold promise; half moons,
quarter moons and crescents, the mystery.
Tell me again,the old story of that rare,
Once-in-a-Blue Moon.

What’s in a name?
That which I call the moon
by any other name still cycles me toward your orbit.
The moon shimmering upon my sea is the
same moon standing guard atop your mountain.

My tide climbs high in search of your moonrise.
Waxing, waning, what difference?
Your gravitational pull eclipses all else.

Over the moon, any moon.
Each moon, every moon,
all my moons shine for you.

AW

15 moons have passed since my pen first
inked the paper destined for your hands.
The Snow Moon followed the Wolf Moon,
and the Hunger Moon yearned, aching,
soothed only by the soft glow of the Pink Moon.
The Planter’s Moon blossomed
brightly into the Flower Moon. And the
Moon of the Green Corn turned beet red,
erupting forth into the Blood Moon.
The Moon of the Falling Leaves,
the Wild Moon and sweet, Strawberry
Moon all came and quickly left.
The Hunter’s Moon reaped a Harvest Moon,
while the Storm Moon wept in silent torrents.
But ah, the saddest and most
wounded of them all: the Moon of Long Nights.
Made of cheese, she stands alone.
And those are just the full moons.
New moons hold promise; half moons, quarter moons
and crescents, the mystery. Tell me again,
the old story of that rare, Once-in-a-Blue Moon.
What’s in a name? That which I call the moon
by any other name still cycles me toward your orbit.
The moon shimmering upon my sea is the
same moon standing guard atop your mountain.
My tide climbs high in search of your moonrise.
Waxing, waning, what difference?
Your gravitational pull eclipses all else.
Over the moon, any moon. Each moon, every moon,
all my moons shine for you.
And you alone.
AW
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