Trying To Touch The Moon

Sometimes when silence silvers the sliver of moon at dusk

And daylight ebbs from rivers like a silk and satin husk

When blue-brusque tusk of north wind tugs at twilight’s edge and wins

And slips a cloak of velvet black across empyrean skins

When worlds slip from my windows save a wisp of crescent moon

And everything is quiet save the echo of high noon

I feel the reel of teal, maroon and amethyst enmesh

Like steel of whispers tattooed in the fabric of my flesh

And Thought is like a hunter thriving when the light is lean

Yet thought is like The Hunted plying senses quick and keen

And Night is like a body without bearing, breath or form

Yet wraps earth in its shadow taking heaven’s stars by storm

The tumult of tomorrow waits to seal its breadth to naught

Where now I spy with guessing games the outcome of mere thought

...a dot beneath the crescent moon, this spot where I am bound

Trying to touch the tip of it with both feet on the ground

© Janet Martin