These little crusty spots of lunar spray
spill across the earthen stone a greenish-gray.
Creating a lunar landscape of ancient form,
painted like moon drops from a celestial storm.
A fungal garden of ancient bloom,
attracting no lovers of polliniferous swoon.
No floral enticements of colorful hues,
nor succulent nectar of the morning's dew.
Just unpretentious wanton desire;
a rounded rock, a sky of fire.
A symbiosis of perfect love,
coupled in silence, to each is one.
© 1997 Jim Cain