Crescent Moon

O the moon is a crescent,
In that great sea of blue.
No longer is it elegant,
Its form is not new.

It has a long look,
With hardly an eye.
And its cratery long look,
Is a slit in the sky.

Sometimes it is hiding,
And only part can I see.
With dungeon chains dangling,
So he can not get free.

Dark are the clouds,
That trimble about.
And the door-way to heaven,
Won't let him come out.

Crescent moon sailing,
Up there so high.
To go to those heights,
Earth-birds never try.

E.P. 1908 - 1989