In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.
The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.
It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.
Poetry is a sequence of dots and dashes, spelling depths, crypts, cross-lights, and moon wisps.
POETRY: A sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
Under the harvest moon, When the soft silver Drips shimmering Over the garden nights, Death, the gray mocker, Comes and whispers to you As a beautiful friend Who remembers.
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