Some evenings the Moon peeps from behind clouds
shyly, trying to be both unobtrusive and helpful.
Fingers of light flick hither and thither,
almost afraid of what they may touch.
Then with menopausal effrontery,
she sweeps darkness into corners and crevices,
her crisp light angering covert lovers of darkness.
Clouds dissolve under the Moon goddess’s glare.
The portent of each solstice, tirelessly she toils
to keep the ebb and flow of earth’s life source.
In a never-ending cycle she presents herself
seeking neither payment nor reward, only respect.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem