My Moonscape in November
Above the empty street
a dried grass sickle hovers behind the clouds
slicing the darkness into streaks.
I do not expect easy merriment:
my moon is the solemn type, profound
She has put a blanket of shades over the garden.
a single lit window stares
back at her.
Filling up she sweeps
along the brook
pulls on its water
even causing bulges for stirring events.
Water runs from the window pane.
Around the desk words
cast long shadows.
my moon paces