It must be lonely to be the moon
is what I’m thinking,
while I watch her, smearing
the windowpane with prints.
No one is holding her.  The night
is cold.  The sun eludes,
doesn’t anchor, watches over,
gives her light to read by,
and shows her, more
or less, what she is.
What she is
appears to be
a free and wild thing,
drawn to us by
gravity and poetry,
and nourished by the sun
until she is whole again.
I take it back.
Doesn’t sound lonely at all.