Blue Moon

Scarcely enough to summon my gaze
with fleeting reticence she hovers
her sun-dipped flesh begging to be seen.
Shamelessly I gawk to the tune of the six million cones
signaling her arrival in just as many shades of peach.

Tick to—

Beholden to her I persuade my kin to follow suit
for anything less seems self-serving —if not blasphemous.
They too fall silent, fingertips dipping into her vastness
their words funneling through twilight, now stilled
at curtain rise.

Sitting on the edge of time

expertly flanked by twin spires of earthly bark
I expose her in all her glory, sipping her
the way one would a glass of fine wine.
Dare I not blink for fear of missing
her climactic scene while she teases us both

the minutes

and me, gently rekindling mementos
from days gone by. But a festering guilt
intent on summoning my productive beast
threatens a reprise.
I will my eyes shut and breath to widen

tempering time

And as the final curtain calls, together we bow.
Yes. Guilt is relentless —but so am I.