What color is it? that luminous llght,
throwing patterns past midnight under my archway,
and on the sandy beach of our island ocean,
where I used to wade 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 blend of Roquefort, or
more like Stilton, color of cream, more radiant
than light spilled by the indecent bright glare
of the Sun God? It's the midnight stare
of the Maid In The Moon, no matter its color.
She wakes us from sleep to place 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 folklore tells us-- No
matter! She brings us to our knees.