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The largest moon of the year
was obscured by the clouds.
Midnight, and she was trying break through.
One by one, strands of silver moonbeams
penetrated the diaphanous ash of cloud cover,
articulating themselves
like a child’s fingers through a bubble bath
or toes wiggling through sand.

It had rained earlier
the sidewalks were slick and eerie
like London or an alley.
The moon kept poking holes in the clouds
until she could see reflection
in the sheer pools that had collected.

‘I’m getting old,” she thought,
“Old, but beautiful. I’ve earned it.
No one knows how hard it is
to light the night sky. That’s why
I’m so temperamental.”

Her favorite nights were in late summer
when people squeezed in the last
of their vacations before it was too late,
before they were forced to return to reality.
They looked up at her in awe
and gratitude and blew her kisses.

She sometimes wished she could take a vacation,
travel to another galaxy. Maybe on a planet
that already had several other moons,
so there wouldn’t be as much pressure.

The moon sighed, catapulting stardust
across the black curtain of the night.
She rested in the comfort of the clouds,
no longer wanting to push through
and be naked.

She went to sleep,
eager to find out what the poets
had written about her
when she awoke.

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