I’m usually awake before the moon falls down,
crashing into the horizon
and splintering into billions of different pieces.
I don’t participate in the collection of its fragments–
that usually belongs to the children,
laughing jovially as they sprint toward the dispersion of moon rock,
lifting the bottom of their shirts to form little baskets
so that they might carry those pieces close to their bellies
as they race to the place where it comes back together.
I don’t participate in the reassembly–
that also belongs to the children.
They stack the pieces and squish them together
and sometimes use just a little bit of glue
until the moon is whole and healthy and round once more.
And I don’t participate in setting the moon aloft in evening time–
that too belongs to the children.
They let it float up like a helium balloon that gets lost
except that they are rooting for this rising,
watching it with wonder-filled eyes,
though they see the same moon night after night,
just in different phases.