With no sonata named for it
no curving arc on which to sit
one leg dangling a little bit
into the stars, what else would fit?
How would a wolf morph from a man,
youngsters dream Olympian,
farmers rotate, weavers plan
the midnight robe of charlatan?
This perfection of celestial stone -
what would we sing of, moon unknown,
no green-cheese fantasy to which we've flown?
How would we feel, so all alone?