The Vesperings

What a marvelous thing the world seems;
such copious frondescence in the breeze
screening sunsets by cedar dangle gleams
and crescent Luna filtered though the trees
in her twilit west horizon descent...
ever brighter in each degree she drops
like a hallowed blade meant to circumvent
the gentle Zephyrs in the arbor tops
teasing the rudbeckias and borage
and wagging all the oregano stalks
in the soil of their herbal moorage
amid the foxgloves and the hollyhocks
and in and around the ripening plums
or the blueberries and love lies bleeding
by the rhubarb and the chrysanthemums
and dry clover earnestly re-seeding...
which lonely, lonely Luna, cannot do...
because skies there are black, instead of blue.