The moon in her dappled beauty spun, ever in perfect synchrony with her heavenly companion.
Into the black heavens, upon this clear night, comes the grace of white-gold moon.
If the moon appeared anew in the sky upon a clear and starry night, in that instant it would elevate the souls of all to some higher plane.
In monochrome musings the moon is a deep silver ballerina, turning pirouettes with perfect form.
The moon in eternal stoic grace takes her place in the heavens, content to ever-reflect the light of the sun.
Bathed in the light of the sun, the moon was more beautiful than even the stars around.
The moon came to the sky as a mother comes to sing a soft lullaby, to ease her children into a star-filled night.
The moon graced the sky as if she'd had some bright idea, something brilliant needed to shine upon the Earth.
The moon reflected the pure rays of the sun, and in doing so became as beautiful as our star of the daytime.
The moon was a warm milky glow in the sky, as if the sight of it could become a song in the eyes of anyone willing to raise their head upward.
Amid the starlight was the ever glow of the moon, that mother of the sky whom watched over every beating heart, steady and true.