she was out there, untouchable as the moon,
distant as the pillars of heaven, cold
as arctic ice is blue . . . desirable
as only the unattainable can be,
and all the poets clamored to sing her
anthem to the old gods,Olympus blushed
while the muses retired to nunneries.
even the pleiades tripped in their dance
when she walked by. and I, I wrote poems
colorless in her presence, prosody
bereft of rhythm, beats unbeaten, time
tattooed in stuttering heartbeats, one rhyme
symbol ringing at an awkward moment:
and she was the very melody of Moon.
David M Pitchford