Talking to the Moon

I was talking to the moon, Interrupted by clouds and dark, even the stars blinked out of sight. She was so familiar. It seemed words were hardly necessary. She tilted into the sky, so inviting, her cratered face open, she was content to reflect borrowed light, silent beams bending in trees.

I was talking to the moon,
Interrupted by clouds and dark,
even the stars blinked
out of sight. She was so familiar.
It seemed words were hardly
necessary. She tilted
into the sky, so inviting,
her cratered face open, she was content
to reflect borrowed light,
silent beams bending in trees.

Author: Janice

A creative. Lifelong Marylander. After many odd jobs of adolescence and college, have always worked as a writer and published essays, op-eds, articles, and poetry in national news media and small presses. Collection of poetry, "Saturday at the Gym", about boxing, aging, and motherhood; collection of artwork and poetry, "What Are Mothers For?" On the verge of an empty nest for the first time in 30 years, my question is: What am I for?