Can That Be The Moon?

Can that be the moon,

that dull fragment half-lost in mist,

that dirty-yellow smudge?

This the same moon on which,

only some nights ago,

I gazed in wonder and humility

as before some dazzling deity,

something immensely ancient,

quietly ruling the heavens,

a great resplendent sphere,

the clouds beneath it

a glowing silver highway

befitting the passage

of a truly celestial body?

Such swift decline

from majesty to mediocrity,

from god to ... smudge!

Ah, such is the way!

Flowers too!

Blooming extravagantly,

delightful specimens,

only to go off within days,

beauty yielding to decay.

Waning, withering, wasting.

Such processes, I suppose,

must now catch my sympathy.

Blurred, too, my own features,

sought in the mirror,

suffering a loss of definition,

like something on its way out,

at some late stage in its cycle.