Crescent Moon

Tonight’s moon

sliced

sharply

into the blackness

of the night

spearing my eye

catching it

with its slender

stiletto.

 

An earring delicately dangling?

A knife to curve up under the ribs?

A Russian symbol, code letter, for change?

A light about to open – or about to close?

 

Tell me your secrets,

scythe of the sky.

 

I want to know

where you’re leading me

and what you portend

because

surely,

a beauty

low and golden

ripe yet delicately slender,

such as yours,

must have more meaning

than simply

heralding the night

and stars

and sleep

(or not, as I’ve found of late).

 

I’ll wrap your copper wires

around me

to light up

my sky

whenever I am feeling

dark.

 

Don’t scratch me too hard,

will you?

I need your warmth

and shining beacon

or I will,

soon enough.

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