The moon
Rides very close
Tonight,
And bathes my lawn
In mellow light.
Pocked with stars,
The sky
Bears planetary
Scars.
The blackened trees,
Dense and dark,
Reach upward
With their
Arms of bark.
‘Take us along,’
Perhaps they say,
The moon is mute
And glides away.
The earth admires
Its perfection,
But spins in
An oblique
Direction.