A Mezza Luna My mezza luna, crescent moon. Up there, pronging errant clouds. Up there, where stars move heaven and earth. Cut and sliced, night’s fabric redressed. Full to blousy. Wax to wane. Sad and joyous, so pale and faint. Up there. Up there. We stare up. Up.
©Misky 2023 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter.
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