Moon-colored

  

I wanted not to say how pretty you looked,

standing there in your rose-colored dress.

I wanted rather to ask you if you had seen the moon

high and bright the other night.

Of course, we would have been standing then

miles apart among the city chorus of cicadas.

But the distance really makes no difference

any more than it matters how pretty you look.

I had only wanted to know if you had noticed

how the shining moon left silvery streaks

on thick threads of wispy clouds across

the blue-black sky.

But then you turned away from me

and I saw your slender back,

a wide crescent of moon-colored skin crossed

by rose-colored strips of cloth.

And then I wanted not to tell you

of the stars above

or your glittering eyes below.

I wanted only to see your face

by the night-colored light of the moon.