Why should I write my poem about the moon,
when it shines its Cheshire smile,
astounding me by being,
hanging in the dark and the light?

Others have written of the moon, surely
their words are more elegant than mine,
finely wrought, or fluid.

Ha!  Shall I not tell my love I love him
because others have loved with more fires,
with less fear?
I will taste passion for myself and pain
and sorrow and bliss.
It will be mine as all things are and are not,
as this poem is.

If you think it a lesser piece of verse,
at least it may have the happy result
of a few more hearts rejoicing at the moon,
and that is worthwhile indeed. 

And now the stars have knocked me over.
I am lying on the sidewalk
agape and awash in wonder.
I take back my poem,
and set my heart loose amongst the 
glittering glory.
Do what you will.
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