Waning Crescent
a poem
The shadow that hides,
With the back grace
Moon escarpment
fluttered down through the
leaves with face.
Wane new on full.
Where is there an eclipse,
all red and filled with gibberish?
Until it floats blood red
till the morning lies blue?
Umbra tells no tales,
whether aphelion, Synodic, or draconic,
a stressful tritos of affairs.
Oh too wax so poetic
on beams of brick and mortar.
Carry on, carry over,
and carry me back to old Virginia,
and make a mash
in a dress.
I want my
M
tv.