The moon like a long lost friend
sails back into your life,
revenant, saleswoman, wife, witch,
cold and hard now, not like
the warm fluffy pillow you took to bed
through the warmth of June and July;
the picnic is over and it is time to sing
for your supper—make it a good one.

This hardened pearl
seals nights cracking with cold,
first intimation of the steel in her soul;
guardian of authenticity, spectral
spotlight, frozen or saved, moon
is the impartial observer science
dreams of—too bad they can’t touch her.

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