Yet You Are Still My Moon

yet you are still  my moon the immortal poet whispered

after all those launches from the Cape

the thunder of rockets in the afternoons

and that this dissipates we have found too true

after the circus novelties of all the landings.

still I see you floating in a sea of darkness 

silver in the same way

weaving yourself through clouds so far away

though they have charts now

mapping every crater

and your invisible lakes

still elusively I trace

in fitful Spring 

the changeless enigma of your changing face

and April's pale green wanderings

even more mysteriously there.

and everywhere.

and I wonder how any footprint was laid against

your firefly dust.

still I see you white silver at best or rust in autumns

past counting

courting the blue shadows or in the rose

and rare appearances that you make

incalculably aloof

in bright residue and reserves

shining on my roof, above this earth

and flowing through my open shade

making lilac pools upon the midnight floor.

we hold conversation as before

Muse and musing; gardenia silence above

the milky avenues

and every word is minted new...

because, because of you

in cloud languages and the night bird songs

and me so small with this eternal childlike aching in my heart

that you alone impart

how can I tell them it is still you swimming in the dark

fish beyond catching

lingering strangely in chalk blue daylight like a token

still the out of reach floating above the peach trees

and that they have not found you at all.

mary angela douglas 10 october 2020