My love is one and only, without peer,

    lovely above all kingdom's lovely men.

In my sky of light or dark,

    be quick to see the silver sliver of the nightfall star;

for in only the flutter of a week he receedes,

    too humble to parade the whole of the month.

Do not mistake this for shyness - in his stroll through heavens,

    he will not turn his face from an alacritous gaze,

he will only reflect the good the world hides

    back in a sterling smile

embedded in freckled cheeks

    from eras of asteoid-bathing in the sun.

Sweet is the beard, half dark half white,

    that hangs from his pointed chin,

dropping to firm pecs in the flexing light,

    expanding contracting in lunar breaths.

And toned are those arms, branded in filigree,

    that lift the curtain of otherwise darkest nights

and act as a mirror of life's spirit

    to many times brighten my shadowed lands.

And (ah) how the curve in his waning figure deepens,

    how the pit in his waxing figure fills,

(enough to make a man's head spin

    like an owl's when it hears a mouse in his moonlight.)