The
Dimpled
Moon,
Pocked with
Mystery,
Rises
Slowly,
Bobbles
Over the
Jagged
Mountain,
And fades
Beneath
Lenticular
Clouds.
Rain is
Forecast
And the
Desert
Waits.
I watch,
Thinking of
Painting
The blue
Curve
Of the
Morning
Glories,
The petal
Edges
And the
Dozen
Greens of
Foliage,
Furled now
In the
Gloom.
Stars
Wheel
Past,
But no
Rain comes.
Long past
Love,
All that’s
Left to do
Is make
A little
Art,
Until
The
Moon
Peeps
Out Again,
With
It’s
Mocking,
Patient
Smile.