The Rising Moon
By John Herlihy

The moon rises slowly in a darkened sky;
Our world cast in milky light from on high.
All with such silence that inspires holy awe,
As doe-eyed as a maiden anyone ever saw.

He brings out the sparkle of yonder winter snow;
He showers branches in the light of forest glow.
The creamy orb a wild monster with a yellow eye;
Its furtive glance the entire human world to espy.

The moon harbors secrets no one ever foretold,
Climbing the lip of the horizon with feelings bold.
When the moon appears dressed in midnight light,
Archangels hold the unveiling in their mystic sight.

The waxing phase a scimitar to cut off our heads;
The waning phase a silver bow across our beds.
The final phase a fingernail falling to the ground;
The new moon shows no face and utters no sound.

Our bashful moon aspires in the days and weeks,
To cast its borrowed light upon anyone it meets.
It dances as specks of light across mighty oceans,
Drenching watery depths with its magic potions.

Its pale light disturbs the sleeping mountain’s rest,
Haunted winter wolves pant and howl in protest.
Behold, our beloved moon, the celestial lunar orb,
Bewitching us with its mystery into knotted cord.