As I travel, a low, yellow, hunter’s moon,
one day past full,
Plays a game of sly, sidelong glances
through trees and houses,
Wearing a tatter of thin cloud
Mocking coquetry.
We know each other, says the moon.
I know this dance.
An old one - neither can move,
So hook steps like eyebrows and insults,
over-the-shoulder glances,
long, mutual smiles, and
throat-exposing laughter.
Each time we meet, we look, we laugh,
and are careful with praise.
Once a month the light strokes my face,
a reflection of what might have been
Were the moon not wedded to the sky,
or I a celestial body.