Caught out in daylight, a rabbit's
transparent pallor, the moon
is paired with cloud of equal weight:
the heavenly congruence startles.

For what is the moon, that it haunts us,
this imprudent companion immigrated
from the system's less fortunate margins,
the realm of dust collected in orbs?

We grow up as children with it, a nursemaid
of bonneted sort, round-faced and kind,
not burning too close like parents, or too far
to spare even a glance, like movie stars.

No star but in the zodiac of stars,
stranger there, too big, it begs for love
(the man in it) and yet is diaphanous,
its thereness as mysterious as ours.

- John Updike

Written by a man, plagued by illness, but struggled to carry on his life in his last dying days.