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My eyes wooed
the telescopic lens
licking the least particles
of finite observation.
Your white so pure,
pocked by long craters,
bound by soft shadows,
made me think
this was no moon
I had seen before.
But nearby voices paused,
held in momentary awe
by this new view
(looked at a thousand nights)
now beheld in gasps.
Poets once sang of the moon.
Dreamers named their love the moon.
But on this night one quarter gleamed,
I saw a raw jewel’s glow
and others did,
birthing new visions
for all of us.
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