The mysteries of the moon are cold
Only to those who do not understand
Or will not gauge their depth.
Their silvered glow exceeds
The short-lived heat of sun.
Theirs is the crystal-clarity of windswept days,
The black, velvet-muffled wisdom of the night,
And deep fulfillment that is born of these.
And close within the moon’s reality
Are held the valiant effort
And the pain-strewn urgings
Of a boundless age.