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Great silken disc, hung low in the sky;
as big as harvest moon, yet, somehow, not quite like;
Soft, translucent orb wears scarves of mist,
She reluctantly enters the night, poised on a hilltop;
Ready to flee the encroaching black.
Pursued all night, flies higher and higher,
Until worn hard and cold by the chase,
Falling then, into the dawn sea.
How This Poem Came to Be
It was a starkly clear, cold night in February when I first penned this verse. The kind of clear cold you get after a recent rain has purged the dust from the sky; only a few lingering wisps of clouds remained.
I grabbed a paper and pencil to remember the feeling, before it got away.
Originally written in February of 1990, revised in August of 2009, and again in february of 2018.
© 2010 Liz Elias