On long walks,
voices sultry or rasp
often accompany me.
But this morn
I walked with the moon,
her eye, a bleary yellow -
as if staying up all hours
was finally killing her -
trailed me through parking lots
and matted fields.
As she kept pace
and heard my morning moans,
bared her white-gold
wisdom to my complaints.
Miles beyond I reviewed
the mayhem of my day
A glance over shoulder
and she still shone,
wearily, waning and pale,
no match for the bold,
mounting sun.
She tired easily I thought
her nickel-plated shield
that protected the night
now laid down as if
she had stopped fighting
for darkness. Sun seeped in
diffusive and slow.
As I trekked through
the final forest
her glow was now light
for some young child, aside
a seething fire waiting
for tenderness that comes
only with the night.
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