No nook of galaxy,
no day of the week,
not even a flower named after it
No fleet of planets orbiting it,
not even making the pass-marks
to be a planet
It swoons happily
around the earth
being her lone satellite
No horizons to rise or set,
Lost in the morning- mist
stealthily it retreats
Unsure of own shape each night,
round, oval or a sliver of crescent,
shining on borrowed light
Not appears to sustain any life direct
Makes the seas yet
tide and ebb at mere sight
Oeuvre of artists and lover's rendings
owe to the moon more than
any verse or painting could ever tell
A longing suspended in firmament,
a flower without petals
blossoming each night
A fragrance of yearning
filling the hearts of those
not giving in to the pangs of sleep
Moonflower,
Only for those moony enough
to smell the night
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