she moves, softly
trailing her midnight cloak behind
indigo and gold

sweeping across the
sky, an obscuring curtain, a
star-spangled banner

which Creation salutes
some with hushed, black stillness
others with noise

a chorus of
cricket fiddles, hoots and howls
the nighttime choir

joined some nights
by crunk superlatives, thumping bass
and couples laughing

moon crowned lady
casts her soft, silent cloak
over our heads

while I worship
her age and era with
my bleeding pen

Written 8/2/08
© 2008 Nicole Nicholson. All Rights Reserved.

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