I lay by night and wonder how
the moon became such a sight
why it sits sometimes bright
sometimes full, sometimes sliced
sometimes glowing yellow in the dark
big and present making its mark
or small and sliced with barely a bark
it dangles above and draws us near
or sits alone without fanfare
never was it not a moon
never was it without a tune.
It plays its part like a womb
and appears like clockwork,
seen or not, for me and you
and the songbirds too.
It owns its part,
loud or soft,
but never was it,
was it not.
Comments