The Dying Moon
By John Herlihy

The dying moon descends
toward the horizon as a sliver.
The mystical light takes up residence
As fireflies in the river.
The crescent moon betrays itself
As a sharpened sickle.
The stars in remote heavens
Give appearance of being fickle.
The harvest moon orange and full
Pulsing wisdom of an owl’s eye.
The waning winter moon battered and gray
To lay down upon the horizon simply to die.
The phases of the moon never speak in jest,
The light it shines upon the earth is blessed.

SEASON’S GREETINGS ON CHRISTMAS DAY