The spastic flame that dances fast:
too weird to match to drum.
The teary eye strays into trance
as if deadened by rum.
Where will the flame transport us now
that smoke has made us cry?
Where will the cracking sounds take us
as we turn to the sky?
The moon is out and casts a glow,
a glow of milky white.
And each dim point of starlight burns
trillions of times as bright
as that feeble, little campfire
that rules what I now feel:
the heat, the smoke, the popping sounds
that now make my head reel.
I saw a silhouette in the moonlight,
a man who plodded snow that glowed moonlight.
I was mesmerized by the vagabond --
a night-owl nomad moving by moonlight.
What'd take me out into that night's cruel cold,
seeing only what shone in the moonlight?
A deadly urgent case must be afoot,
a riddle solved solely in harsh moonlight.
But maybe there's no beauty like the moon,
and maybe no light flatters like moonlight.
If so, the cold must be some puny stakes
against the milky glow of brisk moonlight.
And so I pull on boots and tug a hat
to venture out amongst the pale moonlight.
And seeing night as did that wanderer,
I know the virtue life finds in moonlight.