Here on the edge
of this great southern land
The new moon takes
a goblet’s stemless shapes
And not the
crescent of prophecies grand
That gilds the flags
of faraway landscapes.
Perhaps it mirrors
a tumbler for scotch
Or bowls for the sweet
fruit of our lush groves.
Yet it is a
highlight of dark night’s watch
And bids the stars
sparkle in glistening roves.
Above tiered
layers of cerise sunsets
Our satellite
seems oddly proximate -
Early human
musings must have feared threats
From such a strangely
changing astral state.
Tonight it rose
above the winter air.
I could not fight
the urge to stop and stare.
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