All of us looking at the moon alone

Radio story of Walt Whitman
casting his gossasmer strands
seeking his soul's companion
never finding, always longing,
making his music from that.

You're driving through moon
and starlight, bright white streaks of cloud,
remember walking with her at 3 am
under cold stars and silent moon,
her mittened hand in yours.

You watched her, bundled and seeing,
wondering if your hands touching,
under that magic sky, did to her
what it did to you, wondering if she
could hear the music too.