Of Moons and Mariners

She sits, complacently resplendent,
dignified as befits a lady of her
years and heritage, garbed in a
soft silvery mantle, scintillating
against the indigo velvet curtain
of the firmament, aglow and stately,
guiding night-time mariners adrift
in a sea reflecting the dark lid of the
sky, navigating by the winking stars.

Below, it is cold enough to crack
bones, to freeze the flow of blood
and place the unprepared into a
comforting sleep to last an eternity
of nights. Up there, in the dark
remoteness of space that silver orb
coasts the sky immune to flattery,
beaming from her heavenly element
to those below, trusting her wisdom.