In pale September, the moon wakes in the sun,

stretching her silvery rays, beyond stars that come undone,

two feet walk in the grass, that toes gather earth,

gripping in a stance, gravitational mirth.

An eye peers unmoved, staring at the dawn,

unwavering lips take in the scent, heavy, budding, strong,

Wind is like the hair of earth, blowing, blowing, in its midst,

taking with it heavens breath, a kiss of dew and mist.

Prolonged hands that dare reach, at the summits top,

rolling lands, a plateau, and valleys that never stop.

Abreast the dusk it rides in waves, we see it once again,

Pale September and her moon, with her silvery hands.


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