Drizzling temptingly up from the east
you rise in traditional silver,
while an ocean of desert wind sloshes
against the house,
splashing windows and dashing doors.
A mere reflection of light,
you tease men into strange beliefs –
offense to the brain, lycanthrope, end of days,
or mere bad luck –
you hold no such sway over me.
But then, here I am,
ninety degree neck
waiting to pass – tiniest of shadows —
between you and the source
we all look to as life.
And still you drip, tantalizingly slow —
night gradient black-to-silver velvet behind you –
and I wait to see your perfect shine
tarnish away to coppery
I’m no viking, but I saw a couple of potential kennings here — but it could be wishful thinking. Happy moon watching one and all!