WAITING FOR THE MOON
By John Thomas Tuft
In the driftwood of the imagination
That’s fashioned by our sleep into beckoning dreams,
The unexplained can find reason and
The magic of the unbelievable becomes all too real.
For when we lay our heads upon our pillows
And the veil of Hypnos enfolds us in lullaby’s tune
Both monsters and princes tread the same paths within
Lest we pretend we are simply waiting for the moon.
For the moon cares not whether we sleep or rise
Or name her Hunter, Wolf, Blood, Harvest or Blue
She can only reveal our dreams to some passing star
And that is the treasure we gain by waiting for the moon.