Full Moon, November

What color is it? that luminous light throwing patterns past midnight under my archway, and on the sand of the ocean where I used to walk, wading home in the surf from Moore's dance floor, where there was a real live band on Labor Day at summer's end, where window after window facing the roiling sea brought a salt aphrodisiac as if the moon was not enough? Is it the pale blue of Roquefort, or more like Stilton, color of cream, you might say, more radiant than light spilled by the indecent bright glare of the Sun God? It's the 'Minuit' stare of the Maid In The Moon, no matter its color. She wakes us from sleep to put our feet in her deep-cast beauty, to trouble our hearts for lost youth and love, and if she's not made of cheese, as fairy tales tell us -- No matter! She brings us to our knees.