3 A.M. Encounter With The Moon Poem by Sally Sandler

The moon invites herself into my room
and stirs me from a deep and rumpled sleep—
a mythic mistress climbing from her tomb,
or silver siren rising from the deep.

Tonight she flaunts her diaphanous veil,
scatters shards of light across the sheets,
grazes cheeks, and lips, and drifts at will,
aware that this seduction will be brief.

For five bright minutes—ten—she owns the room.
The shapes and shadows have been rearranged,
my heart's no longer heavy from the gloom...
the very aura of the night is changed.

But glow from this enchantress will be gone,
and only faded memories of her charms
will linger still beyond the fetal dawn,
when morning chill has settled on my arms.

She suddenly retreats beyond the glass,
and, swiftly as she entered, she has passed.