Moon

I love the moon. I sometimes suspect her to be plotting against me. I picture her as a demure young women.

Sometimes
at night,
if you gaze upon
the moon
just right, you
may see her
trembling.
Not from the whisper
of distant death, or
the calloused cold
from suspending night,
but from her blemishes,
those silent craters
entrenched in her varnished
complexion. She shivers
in her own tremulous
timidity, Awaiting
daylight to wash
away her pallid face, and
set her sister sun aglow.