The face of the moon
Shines over the grass
Soft and fleeting
Like a pandemic
Of pink and silver stars
We will rest in the
Damp grass
Tired of trying
Tired of being
Morning will come
Or so we assume
The waves of hopelessness
Pull us under
I hold her hand tight
Wonder what the first thing
I saw was
And what will be the last
I know of course
That she will be there
Until the end
My heart
My treasure
My shining April moon.
