When I ask that pulled moon to stay,
in her indigo dress she sits
her impish spirit set to play.
I crinkle-gather all my wits
about my fractured self in fits,
a tumble-crumbled comedy.
And through the rumbled sky she flits,
spinning tales of blue tragedy.
She’s a wonder-wandering eye,
blinking brood and comet-whip smart.
She casts her spell; I dance and cry,
and press her presence to my heart.
And with a muggle-muddled moan
I present my own sky: a stone.
A ’bouts rime” written for Gayle’s prompt over at Meeting the Bar at dVerse. Come play!