Great silken disc, hung low in the sky;
as big as harvest moon, yet, somehow, not quite like.
Soft, transluscent orb wears scarves of mist,
reluctantly enters the night, poised on a hilltop, ready to flee the encroaching black.
Pursued all night, chased higher and higer,
'till falling at dawn, worn hard and cold by the chase.
©2-10-90--(rev) 8-8-09 C. Elizabeth Carl
©5-6-10 C. Elizabeth (Carl) Elias
The text below is informational in nature only, and
will reappear in many of my pieces, and can be ignored.
This is extra 'content' added at the end to fill space
for no better reason than that "Hub Pages" wants to
take it upon itself to dictate to a writer how long
their compositions should be. I have numerous poems
that are very short, and this piece of fluff-fill
will appear at the end of each and every one of them.