Moon walk

The crescent moon shines in the sky,

a crack of light under the doorway

of the celestial hallway she

is forced to walk, each night,

agonizingly slowly. 29.53 days to cross

the width of the sky.

Imagine, if you will ,

any trip you take daily,

a walk to your mailbox,

a stroll in your backyard,

the return of a grocery cart,

and slow it down to 29.53 days.

29.53 days. Imagine the cars

you would see in the parking lot,

coming and going, vomiting

and swallowing passengers,

the flowers in your backyard

blooming and dying as you approach,

your bills arriving and becoming

past due as you reach the mailbox.

Now imagine what the moon sees,

in her walk across the sky,

especially on clear nights

when her silver gaze gilds

each blade of grass, each trembling leaf.

Lovers reclining in grassy fields,

kissing each other. Old women looking

out windows for sons, lovers, and husbands

long gone.  Women crossing rivers

with children on their back, men racing

through fields as soldiers, machetes flashing silver,

chase them.  Cities of millions

where no one looks up

to offer even a sigh of appreciation.

Around her ankles are shackles

attached to chains attached

to the tides she must pull. Yet no tide

slows her steps as much as

a child crying ceaselessly in the night.