The Man in the Moon

This rising crescent, enwrapped in fall's gold

Is a celestial bowl not deep enough to hold

The past and its people, younger women and men,

and the ways I spent decades of short years with them,

The chasing, stargazing, the rolling in grass,

Hoping they would, knowing they couldn't last.

Those moments were free, without tether or cost.

As they drip from fall's moon, I just hope they aren't lost.

This rising crescent, enwrapped in fall's gold

Is a celestial bowl, just deep enough to hold

A present profaning its past, and the hope

That as autumns roll down my unyouthful life's slope,

Those leaf-colored winds blow me more than just chaff

But are not strong enough to suck out my last laugh.