by Glenn Meisenheimer
© Copyright 2010 All Rights Reserved
On silver nights, the moon seems white.
Yet, red she rose above the trees
And painted rusted honey ghosts
Across the scattered leaves.
Sometimes I've seen the sea as green
Or tranquil blue on summer day
But gray and angry roiled in storm,
When men get in her way.
The poet said the rose is red,
Yet, pink by springtime breezes tossed,
Or yellow, on a mellow day,
And brown in autumn's frost.
I've felt too that love is true,
It's vivid colors unobscured,
Yet found beneath a yellow moon
That love can be demurred.