The Moon is on the water and the wind is stirring in the trees;
the Willow leaves show silver in the moon-glow, turning in the breeze.
The wispy Cirrus clouds are riding high... a veil of gossamer white;
a Moorhen chatters out there, somewhere; safely cloaked in velvet night.

I watch the silvered ripples as they tumble, tinkling in the stream;
a mood of wistful contemplation settles on me, it would seem.
I watch the moon's reflection in the water, mirrored shiveringly;
always moving, yet not moving... dancing through infinity.

I wonder what the moon has seen and heard, whilst resting, shimmering there?
Eavesdropping lover's whispered dreams? Perhaps, heartbreak and black despair?
How many stories could she tell? how many secrets does she know?
Smiling up impassively, imprisoned in the watery flow.

I look up, and I watch the moon, serenely pale, and floating high;
and ponder the creative power of that old rock up in the sky.
The poetry... romantic connotations... myriad artistry;
for what she really is, she's done extremely well, it seems to me.

Considering the competition, overshadowing her space,
from her Celestial elder sister, Mother Earth... so full of grace;
all azure blue, and green, and white... and beautiful; from pole to pole;
yet, only Cinderella Moon, it seems... can touch romantic souls.

I gaze back down into the water; musing this analogy.
Whimsical perhaps, but yes... it holds a certain truth for me.
Of "Harvest Earth," of "Earth-beams,"
or, of "Earth-light"... poets never write;
I wonder why?... and watch her sail, calm and serene, into the night.