Colorado Moon

Waiting for a white Celica
my gaze shifts from the black pavement
of the ground to the blacker night above.
I see the moon that sees me.
She regards me with casual insistence
like the eyes of a portait which seem
to follow you across the room.
She knows that I am cold, but
if she cared at all she could burn
a hole through gathering Nimbus
with a little stolen sunlight. But
that is not allowed. She is not the sun
nor pretends to be. She is but a face
in the mirror: full of seas and mystery.

What does she see at earth-rise,
when the earth crests the horizon
of her dark side? Nothing.
While daylight tickles the continents
a dividing line is forged at the zenith.
Nothing. Then azure aswirl with verdant life
assails the sensibilities of the lady of the night.
Earth has come to spin above then below again.
Slowly the vision fades as a cloud passing
over moonlight, and it is time to go home.

2.22.1997