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Moonrise at the end of an infinite desert highway,
Whispering to you while a delicate evening sighs,
Or, peering out from behind mighty obsidian anvils,
She delights and surprises in immensity, an all-seeing eye.

The pale-faced moon of Shakespeare, looking bloody on the field,
The cannonball of Ansel Adams, fired into our imaginations forever,
The waterfalling lunar light, joining in with the river,
Every shade of new beginning and surrender.

The all hushed winter landscape as the Goddess walks higher,
The moon of the mountains, her light a potent force in the thin, clear air,
All trees traced out in finery, richened in silhouette against her,
Living out the night as apparitions.

When she is kissing the ground, speaking to you through the same air
You're breathing, listen for the velvet rustling of her pink robe,
Or see the tropical moon among clouds as busy as the waves below,
The golden light of Heaven pouring down, filling footprints in the sand.

If ever we meet I will greet you with gladness
For I too love the moon.

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