That Belongs to the Children

when the moon comes crashing

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.

Photo by Brian Lazo from Pexels

The Two Lovers

I still choose to write of them.

The sunrise is unviewable from this position.

The sunset, too.

Too much crowding of buildings and trees

to witness Sol complete his daily routine.

I don’t often spy Luna either,

with her choosing to cross the sky

after all the blinds have been closed.

This whole dance between star-crossed lovers

hidden from my view,

partially by my choice

and partially by my circumstance.

I don’t know why I choose to still write of them

when I can’t see them.

Maybe it’s because I know they’re still there.

Maybe it’s because I want them to be.

Photo by Ninette June from Pexels


I realized that I would never be enough
to brighten the whole world.

I thought I wanted
to be the sun,
the source of light,
the source of life,
the thing that beckons in the day
and cannot stand the darkness
so much that it has to leave
when the blackness of night encroaches.

But when I tried to fill
the space with light,
I realized that I would never be enough
to brighten the whole world.

Then, I wanted to be a star,
to twinkle and illuminate
in an otherwise dark sky,
to provide just enough light
to prevent fear,
to prevent stumbling,
to be the thing that wayward travelers
use to guide themselves to safety.

But when I tried to shine
a pinprick of light,
I was easily outshone
by the fellow stars around me.

Then, I wanted to be the moon,
the shiny globe that wanes and waxes,
that has the chance to disappear
but always just waits
and always returns,
to be the reflector of light
and illuminate the night sky
in my own right.

But I wasn’t sure how to reflect the light.
I’m still not sure how to reflect the light.
I hope that one day
I can find a way
to reflect the light.

Photo by Dương Nhân