However disappointed or impatient,
the moon rising round, silver painted
its terrible distance minimized by a crescent
shadow- the world's body
not its tiny bees and lakes or wolves
absorbed in the shape of a cupped hand
held over a quiet light as if to say
"these are the secrets
we cannot share".
Who knows the size of a thousand
evenings woven loosely like a sweater
whose red hood hides a witness, what
she covets from who she fears. Why
does she live in darkness, when
what she feels is fire?
This night, many nights, so many
wounds have healed by luck or
prayer or preparation. Perhaps
the moon will slip or slide to its destruction
before she disappears.
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