There are nights she waits
for me, a pallid eye upon my leisure,
home. I think she is a promise.
There are nights she curves
her shoulder, golden warm and full
with child. I think she is
There are nights she shuts
her eye, turns her back, black sky
belie the hangnail hint
she will return.
I fear she is
Poet's Note: The prompt was to write a poem about the moon, our thoughts on the moon, etc.