Poets wax on about the moon, my delight wanes.
I was taken by its various hues when full:
pink moon, harvest moon, flower moon
that emerged from pines to unfurl its moon-wake
on water. I’ve fawned over crescent moons hung
haphazard from a star, lauded moon beams
that slipped over my sill to lull me to sleep.
But that was when my grandsons could scramble
onto my lap with a book, giggle into their pjs
when I sang the jammie-up song, when feet,
spent from baseball were propped on my sofa,
when the oldest ones conversed candidly about
their jobs or finding a new girlfriend.
Now, the newest has learned to crawl on Facetime.
That was when sons, daughter, and their spouses
hugged me tightly, when I walked with my sisters,
elbows locked, when my brother hosted family BBQ’s,
when I could gently embrace my 95-year old Dad.
Now I see the moon for what it is,
a hunk of airless iron formed from debris,
boiling by day, sub-zero by night,
glass-like lunar soil that reeks
of gunpowder, an empty, distant
vacuum bombarded by comets.
My family looks to me for hope,
but today it is as distant as the moon.
Give me this day to be dark.
Tonight, I will open my blinds,
embrace the hope moon as it rises.