Ice Moon

On cold nights, I sit on my dark planet and wonder at
the architecture of the moon.
Such a spacious city
made of some malleable, dreamy stone.
A citadel atop a hill;
what a strange journey to arrive there.

The shadow of a grape branch dips into
the glass of milk on my windowsill.
Still, as if enclosed in the grace of strangers.
Spider appendages write across the foggy window
in some nocturnal tongue lost with the moon's history.
I stare into the faded meadows of the moon bow
and see blue flecks of light catch in the dust still rising,
even after so many years of ghost civilization.

Blank city,
you are the weathered book
with shells of words submerged.
As if under a spell,
we somehow forgot
that it is really we who are in the dark.