Thumbprint in the sky,
mother prune,
look down on my comet,
easily identified
but gone too soon.
To wear the crown
a jewel must die, and
tonight, a thief
gives up her boon.
For the roundness I project
is but a relic of the moon.
Once a story's spun,
to watch its woven threads undone,
sheer agony and doom.
I'm jealous of
her hide-and-seek,
the wax and wan from public view;
randomness wards off midweek gloom.
She's not afraid to dip,
split leap, and swoon.
Words are lost heirlooms,
stored in the dank corridors
of night's mausoleum.
This month, I have no harvest.
My journal stands
transfixed by the light of
her forthcoming harpoon.
Feature Artwork: “A Trip to the Moon” (Le Voyage dans la lune) by Marie-Georges-Jean Méliès, 1902
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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