Crescendo

A lighthouse blinks into existence
to reassure an errant sail,
white surf is breaking in the distance.
The crescent, colorless and pale,
climbs, struggling to fulfill his duty
to bathe the sky with lime like beauty,
but has to wrestle with a cloud
that wants to cover him, and shroud
its adolescent distant cousin
in wispy, cotton candy drapes.
But watch the crescent: he escapes,
evades this follower who doesn't
persist in trying for the moon
and lets him dip in the lagoon.

Beneath the gently lapping waters,
drawn upwards by the lustrous glow
a mermaid, one of Neptune's daughters,
is rising, graceful, from below.
She too desires the bathing crescent,
now luminous and effervescent,
preferring him to men and mer,
as if he's shining just for her.
The crescent slips through her wet fingers,
oblivious to her desire,
and in the meantime, climbing higher
as his immersed reflection lingers
upon the surface of the bay
so she can splash around and play.

Arrives, at last, into his orbit.
He's shaking off drop after drop,
rather than trying to absorb it
or let it hang there from his top,
like a forgotten bit of stardust.
Now for the part that is the hardest:
convincing Venus to abide.
But brave Orion is her guide,
and Venus, unimpressed, still rises.
Bright starlets are forever bound,
what goes around must come around,
no bargains, trades or compromises.
The deep lagoon, no tidal pool,
reflects on this unwritten rule.

She understands, upon reflection --
her being mirrorlike, by birth --
and works to strengthen the connection
between the heavens and the earth,
to make the distant seem much nearer,
so dreams are brighter, lovers dearer,
and stars made ready for their shoot,
admirers in hot pursuit.
As for the crescent -- he shines brightly,
spurred on by Venus to his best,
no time to dally or to rest,
performing as required, nightly,
remembering his time is short.
Before too long, the sun holds court.