The crescent moon hangs low tonight,
grazes the tops of buildings.
Its grin is rakish, a Cheshire cat
in a reclining Buddha pose.
I think it knows something,
but it’s not talking.
I am restless. So much to do,
so little time, yet all I want
to do is stare at the sky, try
to cajole the moon’s secrets.
And what if it’s all an illusion –
you, me, the wars, the earthquakes,
even the cat purring on the hearth?
I imagine the universe
without me, without anything
that we call life, and it’s hard
to get upset. Nothing is ever
lost, they say. Mountains
do not grieve, nor oceans
weep. Only we, trapped
in our DNA, have fallen
into desire, keep swimming
against the current,
buffeted by indifferent tides.
