We speak of a sunset, yet seldom say moonset,
As though the moon\'s still rising, never setting.
The sun rises, blazes, then burns out each day,
But the moonrise whispers, that good endings are ready to go.
The sun demands our attention with its brazen glare.
The moon earns our gaze just by hanging up there.
Sunlight shows plainly what we\'re supposed to see,
Moonlight lets familiar things trace a new identity.
The moon exists in darkness, never asking it to go.
It folds our darker feelings into its silver glow.
We wait for sunrise to declare renewed hope and peace.
The moon rises with hope; declaring that darkness should cease.
Blood moon, blue moon, harvest moon, they all arise.
Each borrows from sunlight, wearing its own disguise.
Something borrowed, something blue, yet strangely bright.
All the borrowed moony love makes sadness feel all right.
We see figures, shapes, gods, myths, and hear a loony tune,
While a cratered man\'s face keeps grinning on the moon.
Its light gives common things permission to turn strange.
And lets our imagination moonwalk out beyond its range.
Soft, white and scarred, like teenage skin, its face ever glows,
Cherished for every pock, scar, and pit it proudly shows.
The moon stays up late, letting its endings drift our way—
Maybe tomorrow, maybe someday, maybe, just maybe, it\'s today.