Small moon, each night you hold us in your arc
Though ever fluid in your form and in your path
You dimly vanquish sacred night’s dread dark
And soften our vile actions’ aftermath.
Symbol of longing, love and sweet desire
Of dark despair or hopeless lonely grief
See how the poet prays your silver beams inspire
A sonnet on a shower or a falling leaf.
What are you, moon, a minor spinning rock
Whose light reflected from another greater sphere
Must pale and suffer modern man to mock
and leave your magic to long-dead Shakespeare.
But lovers, tell me, do you burn and swoon
For an email or twitter prompted by the moon?