The Moon Does Not Regret Her Winter
The moon does not regret her winter,
Or the torn strands of gray chiffon
That cover her face tonight.
As this dew shelters the dry grass like tears,
And shadows of dark leaves
Wait to wither into morning,
The moon fades,
Empty of desire or light.
No, the moon does not regret
This burial of love.
In the coldness of her solitude,
She will not weep tears of rust,
Or betray herself with petty despair.
The moon does not regret dust,
Or the accumulation of her years,
Or this sadness beneath salt, beneath bone.
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