A year has passed, twelve verses in quatroseptimanae,
None with an equal syllable count or meter or rhyme,
Yet pure poetry nevertheless, and by THE Poet Laureate.
All things are words derived from one root Word.
Like everything else, my poetry is derivative:
Only reformation, not creation, or even recreation.
Utilizing God-made materials I make a moon;
It has no light or life until the Sun shines off it.
Some moons bring love or guidance or mystery;
Every lunar cycle makes men lunatics.
Dashing down the lunar light lines digitally,
Agonizing over the right word, the write word, the rite word
Vainly trying to make my own blazing ball of gas
Into something other than a flatulent blue-flame.
Sometimes you just have to moon the world.