THE ECHOING MOON

A cold hard
And callous moon
Looked down upon
The frozen pools
The icy breeze
With slapping hands
About the face
Pain it lands.

The lonesome tree
In the park
With drooping face
And battered bark
Its dwindling strength
With hanging limbs
Its branches broken
Its sadness sings.

To frost upon
The shining slates
Of each rooftop
In darkness waits
The warming day
The suns bright face
To take away
Its bitter taste.