Love of Language

We have gotten lazy with language, our lexicon lazily 

Lingers on the same list of some few tens of thousand words,

Soit en anglais, et meme pire en français, mon prof m'encourage

A écrire d'une maniere plus nuance, avec mes milles de mots. 

How can one call themselves cultured with so many words

Having faded from the lexicon of the quotidien 

Late at night, once the lamps have been dimmed, their eyes are closed,

I linger over grammar, I lovingly seek to refine sentences, phrases, ideas,

Soit en anglais, soit en francais, the exercise entries are filled with 

Poorly formed scrawl, also filled her nights with this pursuit.

I can sense her in the room, wherever she may be. 

 

I can't see the red light for the Moon is in my eyes

All the way down the hill, impossibly steep and so slippery, I could only see the Moon.

How did it get so big since last month when I am sure that I hardly noticed it,

And how can it be as large as a red light, the one I can hardly see for the Moon is in my eyes.

I can see the Mare basin, and imagine the dust lofting at the horizon, just like 

The astronauts saw, you know the sketch, the one with lines streaking upwards from the horizon.

It's famous.

The Moon got brighter as I drove home as darkness fell on the City, and by the time 

I drove down the hill, you know the one, the one that has a steep, badly banked curve,

The one with the speed limit of 25, the one that I ride faster on my bike than when I drive.

That hill, the one that gave me final look at the Moon, and I marveled at how beautiful 

It is, that Moon, the Moon that is shining this night, and I wonder when I will see it again

As I descend a hill, any hill, anywhere, in any country.  

I wonder.