44 days, 27

The moon appeared in a totally different corner of the sky tonight. How does it do that? All these years of staring at the moon, and it still surprises.

(If I could remember how many syllables a haiku is supposed to have, I would write a haiku about the moon.)

I would write perhaps that it lies on its back as if it, too, is looking at the sky; all round and sharp, a smile and a trap; a hammock and a scythe; a croissant baked all day inside the sun; it's got that adoring star underneath: what would the moon be without a lover?

All in the deepest silence – to let the lodger sleep: