Thanks for all submissions...not surprising that Mudcatters are good poets. Here's one of mine

OLD MOON

The moon, squashed and misshapen
        Rises above a jumble of pickup sticks--
                Crossed contrails in the night sky.

No slim crescent this, its void a
        Future contract, its open circle
                So suggestive of possibilities, fulfillment.

Neither has it the lush ripeness
        Of the full moon, clearly at the top
                Of her game, all promises granted.

No, gravity has had it's way with
        This moon, blowsy now and bulging,
                Firm contours gone, symmetry erased.

How could it come to this, the moon
        Asks, gazing sadly into some puddle or
                Sylvan pond, in just four short days?

Like some earthly body she is shocked
        At the disparity between mirror and
                Inner eye, an unwilling shape-shifter.

She wraps herself in veils of cloud
        And climbs high into the sky, knowing
                The kindness of distance, and waits for day.