Moon Fifteen

Gloriously you glow
through a net of twig
and silhouette.

Rising, your citrus face
offers gold to my hungry self.
White, what are you?

Barred with black threads
now, banded with streamers
you emerge, gather strength.

At last you glare even into
my brightly lit room: you are
pasted onto a white cross of light.

May you show Emirates
a safe landing; their precious cargo
my daughter, other daughters, sons.

In the meantime, I sleep, swathed
in the certainty of life as cyclical
and of light emanating from rock.