The moon sails into view, ever further from reach,
still passionate and swollen with memories of our lovemaking,
cool and distant now the fun times are done.
Previous companion of our routs, now silent accuser—
“your parties were no fun—at least now that they’re over.”
But then a hint—is it all over? Tiny fish sparkle on the river,
scales of the evening flash in silver light, time free;
a large generous orange moon looms over our harvest,
we cheer knowing how soon you turn into sallow
parsimonious planetoid, beacon hollow times, offer rinds
to comfort us during the trek through the wasteland of cold;
but this persimmon moment, your pumpkin coat announces
the feast that awaits us.

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