Decided to name these things now, now that I feel comfortable with the format. It has a similar mood to yesterday’s more traditional poem.
Lightly streaming down.
Silently like some secret,
Pouring into the lake below.
Like molten silver it spreads out,
Sending ripples out onto the water’s surface.
Observing its glowing visage reflected back up above,
The moon with its eternal look of mournful pride.
What does she think about the world she observes below?
What does she feel when she sees her children mill about,
Sees us cause such toil and trouble, such wars, sorrow and death.
Does she mourn it; mourn all the trouble, the sadness she has seen?
Or is the moonlight her attempt to soothe us all, embrace us.
Is that silver glint of her moonlight hair merely a caress,
A calming influence on a world in such agony and trouble.
Perhaps her look is a smile, an encouragement to us,
To those of us who look up at her,
Who look up at her for the comfort.
The comfort of her eternal shining presence,
Reminding us we are not alone.
That shining roundness up above,
Always observing our lives.
Her light eternal.