She’s A Lady

Just a bit past twilight,
standing on the shores of Europe Bay,
I saw her slip behind a thin veil.
Her face glistening and the silver of her eyes
dancing on Michigan’s rippling waters.
The moon is a lady.

Driving home on hump of Door’s peninsula
I saw a large, yellow melon,
rise in slow harvest off horizon’s edge,
a train of golden glow, trailing like
a hesitant bride dragging her feet.
The moon is a lady.

Stretched on Newport’s unlit beach
I saw her full plump face
shrouded in a downy halo
gliding slowly across a clear ocean
of dark, like a lofty liner,
smug, aloof, brightly lit, self-absorbed,
Lady Lunar was on her way.

She may be a trifling satellite
on astronomer’s charts
strapped to a small dance floor,
whirling to her own Dervish chant.
In her world she is timeless beauty,
riveting our caressing gaze.
Yes, the moon is a lady.