when the moon hangs low
4 a.m.
moon hangs low
clearer than clear
backside in his easy chair
as if to say:
“I’ve done my part,
worked hard, time to rest.”
Honey dribbles from his chin.
♦
And I think to myself:
Who will catch it?
This help, this golden muster —
the kind that gives strength in the night,
muscle to my bone,
reparation when I am weak?
(And God knows I need sight to my eyes.
Can’t see a thing without my glasses.)
♦
If that’s my complaint,
then this is my boast:
I am no greater than the moon.
Every season, phase, tide roll —
around and around
waxing and waning
in and out
just like it did last year and again yesterday
except the waves don’t crash exactly the same way
and in the same place twice.
♦
That man does not tell God what to do
but hangs listless,
waiting —
until the mouth of Him who speaks
says:
“Take another turn
lift up
turn around
hide behind the sun
hang low,
shine.
I formed you to give light,
hang low tonight.”
♦
And the honey that dripped from the chin of this faithful witness
was mine to lick.
♦
In this thin air, I am sustained.
©2013 Elizabeth DeBarros