John I. Blair
On a frigid winter morning,
When it can no longer hide
Behind the oak treeís foliage,
The moon looks pale, and tentative.
On such a day
It cannot be a goddess,
Maybe just a timid animal,
Frozen where Iíve spied it in the treetop.
Oh yes, itís still a massive planet,
Dead and cratered, with footprints on it,
Speeding far away through space;
But that moon is astronomical.
My concern is for the mythic moon,
The moon of my imagination,
Certainly the more persuasive
Of the two.
©2004 John I. Blair