I try to touch the moon.
It hangs in the sky with soft, glowing light.
(Unlike the sun with its all consuming shine.)
It sees our peaceful sleep and calms us.
Yet I am at unrest, for I wish for more,
I sit in the room with the high windows,
I look at what I can't have or be,
And I turn away, not whether to be sad
Or not.
The gentle moon is waning,
Shrinks as though leaving me to the dark.
I fear that since
I have stopped reaching for the moon,
The moon has stopped reaching for me.
The large white circle,
It stays just far enough away to tease,
To make me want it.
One day I stopped raising my arms,
I can not reach it, so why try?
But am I resenting the moon, or
Am I afraid it
Won't reach
Back?
