I was an experienced astrologer, for wandering stars held much fascination,
Luring in opal darkness of mystery, like beautiful butterfly transformations.
My days were spent charting pretty planets, alongside of faint, pearly stars,
Interpreting their effects on humans, and on this turquoise world, and Mars.
I studied deep midnight blue skies, along with carnival seasons and weather,
Like purple mountains' study of pretty valley, wrapped in carpets of heather.
Favorite friends were radiant spots in my life, like fast-rising stars of twinkle,
In rose, fevered, floral days hopeful, doggedly stalking hushed nights of opal.
My debonair family danced in golden summer dreams, forever in warm heart,
Like the dance of a midnight blue bowerbird, as pink clouds are drifting apart.
I lived in the house of lasting sparkle, in blue diamond days of sun's old gold,
Where birds flew down to greet gardens, as green ivy rambled, uncontrolled.
My somber street was so sage green, like summer, and snapdragons roared;
And dainty spider blooms crawled upon brisk wind, just loathe to be ignored!
Nearest neighbors blithely navigated narcissus, as honeybees neared nectar;
And talked of birds, pastimes and birthdays, as well as late, freakish weather.
Summer was in the golden sunbeams, and likewise the dusky sable shadows;
And big-eyed owl could be heard at night, along with sweet, natural sopranos.
The frosted silver of the brilliant moonlight, was like an ever recurring dream,
Like the repeated dream of vibrant colors, in gilded days of the floral regime.
One night I stood at my wide, lacy window, admiring a lovely sliver of moon,
Just before retiring to my bed, like the lethargic pause, just before afternoon.
I sensed that lavish sight was lucky, and sighing I went to my bed of dreams,
Which that night were odd and unusual, as when summer madness screams!
Next morning when I awoke, the sliver was still there, like the ghost of night;
And it seemed like a favorable omen, a cool blend of risen sun and moonlight.
Later on, as noon was naysaying morning, I was digging in my lavish garden.
My shovel struck something hard and rigid, like a storm that's been outdone.
Though no red rose bush would be planted today, I had found old silver coins.
Was it a gift of the last silver moon, rarely bestowed as sun and moon adjoin?
I still have an affinity for lavender stars, but now also for mystic, frosty moon,
For that's how I finally found my fortune, like late afternoon shadows maroon.