About Every 2.5 Years

Twas a bluely lunar
confluence of paths.
Not crossed,
but by bodies stellar
delightfully directed.

On that fine February day
just the thing,
the very what
some -celestial- one’s
weariest ear was
distantly wanting,
maybe mildly aching to hear
was what, all over-earnest,
itched in the scurrilous tip
of charmless Charlie’s
poor pen’s nib;
what, of late,
he basfhully burned
to chant/write/sing.