Moonstruck

I am waxing poetic

And hope I’m not straining

Credulity saying

My talent’s not waning.

 

It may be eclipsed by

Those poets ascendant

Whose words are celestial,

Deep and resplendent.

 

Yet tides keep on turning

And orbits expanding,

While moonbeams drift down,

Oh, so daintily landing.

 

The galaxy’s bursting

With work that amazes

And room for all poets

In all of their phases.