With every inch, a changing shade,

The Moon will strive against the ground,

The stones of cliffs and grass of glade,

The fools beneath and all their sound.

And in her heart, she will refuse

To ever cease her Heavenly lift

Near towns or rivers or even you.

If distance was but just a gift.

She moves, but slow and beckoning.

Her red now yellow, now going gray.

And She will call us Reckoning

Only when we touch, only on that day.

You and I will flicker past

The sloping edge of our sprinting Earth

Like moths just chasing dying laughs

Drying out in ancient dearth.

All the while, when snow will melt,

When the oaks decide to graduate

And shed their leaves like a hard-won pelt,

We will call her love until ourselves, exasperate.

Still on that day our graves are filled,

The Moon will be shifting through her shades,

Casting cloak like it was our will

To hold her til the morning came.