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.