The pale moon ushers,
Freckled with dim scars.
The dark night, shrouded by a frosted sheath,
Readies for an earthly carnival.
Under the ashen sky, cars honk,
Bodies huddled together, bemused, waiting
Ensnared by the night’s girth.
Was it the twinkle of the faint star,
Or the eclipsed moonbeam,
Waxing and waning, taking in their mismatched steps
Their sugar-coated small talks?
We have long recycled our fairy tales,
The city beeps in customized ringtones.
Somewhere, from the night’s dark trenches,
Pixie dust gathers around the bodies, on the cars
Getting ready to roll down the streets.
The pixie dust, dotting our eyes,
Lingering on our lips, swirling, surrendering.
Note: Written today, September 27, while witnessing the marvels of a lunar eclipse in a local state park in Omaha, Nebraska. An event that took place after more than three decades and turned us to awed spectators for a brief moment or two.
Image source: Morguefile.com