A coy moon
Slips behind
The veil,
Moved by
hands unseen.
Slowly it sinks
Toward the trailing
Edge of the night,
A traveler set
To a singular groove.
The newly fallen
Blanket of snow
Gets creased and
Battered by
The morning rush,
Most oblivious to
The magic in the sky.
Silently I watch,
Migrating through
Fox tracks left
In the unmasked moonlight.
The rosy edges slide
Past the horizon,
Just as the sun breaks
It’s opposite.
Categories: Poetry