Poem

Blue Moon

Blue moon taps at my window pane
in that old  familiar way
asking if it can come in and play
wafts a breeze at the orange waxy candle
the drip drip tells me its nearly out
my feather quill
scratching a syncopated rhythm
as the curtains dance
and the pencils play percussion
blue moon winks at me
takes a bite from the peach
blows out the candle
and says
tomorrow will be red

– Anton Ansford