“What the Moon Told Me”
The moon one overwhelming night told me
Of the mountains and valleys of his life
In a weaving juxtaposition like his cratered surface.
He told me of the troubles during cloudy skies
When he couldn’t see the stars
On still nights when he couldn’t hear the wind
For the wind was not talking to him.
You see, she was upset with the moon
And his impermanent ways
How he appeared in the sky some nights
and gone the next few of them;
Without so much as glass slippers or stardust
An anchor to their friendship that would
Remind her, the sad wind, it was real.
I listened to the moon, for very fraught was he
How could he promise time?
When it was out of control of every
one, that it cared not for a friend’s call.
Call I did, unto the moon then
And let him know that he could
Tell the melancholy wind to look inside
And learn to see the moon
With the inner eyes of faith in him
For even though on some nights
She couldn’t see the stars or the moon
They knew of her presence everyday
Only by their unrelenting belief
In the sweet wind’s unconditional presence
And that was all they ever needed.
Read next, an essay discussing the deteriorating value of everyday conversations, and how people unravel their true self to us if only we allow them to.