That Belongs to the Children

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.

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Photo by Brian Lazo from Pexels