In Praise of the Moon

I was naive.

Saw changing seasons from the outside.

A seeming compassionate observer.

Parents, mentors, friends, even events, age.

But my depth never rose to full awareness never

moved from thinking to feeling the sadness.

And now, glimpses still fleeting, of the permanent loss that

that is on the winning side. The battles fewer, the war bigger, the

efforts denied their place in the sun.

But the moon still shines, insistent on bathing the night in stars still sparkling, reminders to share hope, to share dreams, to love with your whole heart, to listen to the wisp of a breeze called grace.

My voice is too often a deafening silence.

But I am still trying.