Sweet, sorrowful moon
You have no reason to weep.
And yet in your pale grief
You are the most becoming.
Your moonbeams fall delicately onto the foreheads,
Lips and cheeks of evening wanderers,
So lightly that they do not feel their touch
But merely their presence.
They invade the breasts of young lovers huddled
In the dark corners of the emptying streets.
May lay day after day in the sun.
Basking unashamedly in her brassy, showy attractiveness.
Me, I appreciate the unusual, the understated,
I love your mild illumination.
Poem by KATE NICKERSON