Streetlights fire their powder-orange flare
My window frames their haunting glare
yet high above in cold dark air
the moon holds its own
Oak trees stretch their vast silhouettes
toward crowds of clouds whose pirouettes
hide stars—schemes to make me forget
Yet the moon holds its own
I can hear the wind call her name
through this open window
Can you hear it too?
I can stand here all night and claim
to caress her shadow
Can you touch her too?
I can wander all night alone
I can wonder how far she’s gone
I can gaze at the silent phone
hold it in my hand like a bone
scraped clean of flesh and smooth as stone
yet I can’t match the distant moon
glowing, flowing from me so soon
How the moon holds its own
Roger Armbrust
June 13, 2011
