Fate of the Tame Gray Moon

An Experiment with Terza Rima and Assonance

A ton of crumbling cut bundles of sun
sweetened even the breezy sea
while I sat by the tide with a ripe lime so nice.

But he, in the heavens, kept wrestling,
(whilst I sipped at the rim of citrus twist)
on a cosmic thought that he was fond of fondling.

Soon that fruit took me for a loop, avoiding the ruin
that might try, from the sky,
to twist the bliss of the willow into a list of quills.

Some fat cat up on a slat cracked up and laughed
and I smirked: one, with mirth at such silly quirks
and, two, at that tame gray moon, poor old buffoon.