Friday, October 22, 2010


full and orange like a ripe peach
she is resting between the open arms
of the black western hills,
which are speckled with the gems of a city's light,
and the black somber arms of the clouds
as they crawl across her wide brow. . .
she is the sentinel of calm,
smoothly sailing across the black skies
which watch with the millions of silver eyes
hungry for the warmth of our planet . . .
and the moon,
she is the goddess of our home . . .
our refuge from the dark as,
so long ago, when we were young
we looked up to her
from our fires,
and in the darkness
and the fear of the night's mysteries,
reached to touch her firmness
like our mother's breast,
a comfort,
so, while in the shadows of her smile
and her ripe reflections,
we trust her magnetic strength
and count our days

beneath her walk, her dance
as she owns the skies for us . . .
and pours on us the generous flow of her milk,
so we can see 
in the dark,
and know who we are . . .


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