They call her a woman,
that luminous nighttime lamp.
Was it, perhaps, her coy face
peeking behind gossamer curtain clouds?
Or could it be
her gentle luminosity, her changeable personality?
I see her each evening,
My love, my life, so beautifully full and bright.
My lover the moon,
and I am her wolf at night.
I come calling,
hoping for a sliver, a shy peek of silver.
Glinting off the lake,
rippling over my fur as she runs her pale hands down.
I cry with longing,
and yet she still flirts from her distant perch.
forever lost; and so I sing a song, a love ballad.
Of my love and loss to her distant, cold heart.