Moon

My blood boils,
my temper rises.
The silence of a late night,
the coolness of the night's wind.
Still, none brings me the soothe
I desire.
*
I lay on the lawn,
still moist from its previous sprinkle.
And then it catches my eyes,
like an enthroned queen
sitting at the chamber's center,
the moon.
*
A distant illuminated ball
beneath the vastness of a dark blanket,
endowed with unending glory.
The ease, the peace
with which it sits
allays all but a jocund mood.
*
And the inevitable neighors
other than the twinkling wands.
They scud past, below the moon
with gaits paced
more like threads
than sacks of tears.
*
As if the softness of its appearance
bears a most tender whip,
the weight in me compresses,
replaced by bliss in my heart.
Even with the chill the night brings,
what spreads through me is soothing warmth.
*
Someday, if I gaze up at the moon again,
angry or happy or depressed,
I'll be content with just the idea,
the comfort of gaining it;
a most wonderful, dependable companion.
The moon.