In honor of Baudelaire's Tristesses de la Lune

Sorrows of the Moon

Tonight the moon is dreaming lazily
a seductress in languid repose, her cushioned bed,
the roundness of her breast, gentle caress of idle hands,
a tender hush, closer now to sleep

Soft pillow of night, she drifts upon the satin slide of sky,
and swooning, drapes herself quietly down,
sleepy eyes regarding the sapphire heavens
deep blue darkness dotted with blossoms of white

Behold what errant tear escapes her languid gaze
and reflecting iridescence,
drops swirling into the mist of evening;
still awake, a poet, reverential villain of sleep

reaches forth, cupped hand trembling to receive
the liquid opal of the moon,
draws limpid treasure back, tucks it in to sleep within his heart,
hidden, safe, secure, far from the brilliance of the sun.