Rhiannon Across the Sky

Moon,

I know your song rides with her—

the lady on the white horse,

her hair flowing like rivers of milk,

her voice like silver rain.

The fields bend beneath her passage,

owls hush,

the very stones listen.

She is not only beauty—

she is lament,

each hoofbeat echoing a farewell,

each glance a promise unkept.

Moon, tell me—

when I follow her shadow,

am I chasing grief,

or blessing?

Both taste the same in the dark.

Still, I lift my hand as she passes.

Still, I feel her shadow brush my skin—

soft as benediction,

sharp as parting.