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.
