The shadowed moon, darkly unknown looks down
wondering about the white green earth changing
dazzled by the eternal brilliance the long dance
together around and around. His blind white face
sees nothing, but the man in the dark the face
we glimpse, thinking he eats green cheese
the substance we can’t see, sees us, sees
the slow changes: the green advancing
then retreating, the white ice grinding south
and retreating, over and over, millennia pass.
Moon man remembers when he was young
an earth encased in bloody volcanic fire,
spots of crimson, a cloud shadowed black earth
cut by a spreading sea, blocks of land split,
water cleaved, moving, a slow measured gavotte,
till now. The drowsy half moon man wakes, is shocked,
earth night is quirkily changing, the earth’s sleeping half
is awake spotted with light clusters and veins
alive at night, at each turn expanding.
The seas are spreading, the white parts are vanishing
all in a blink of the moon man’s eye.
Kent Bowker 11/22/2014