what is real
The moon is just the moon,
a cold ball of stone orbiting earth,
reflecting light of the sun. Only
so much symbol in an object; then,
despite the human desire for more,
it remains an object. This afternoon,
warm July day, the waning moon
in its last quarter hangs in the sky,
luminous crescent. An event I’ve seen
many times before, but on this day,
honeysuckle staining the breeze,
it seems new, amazing that this object
associated with night shines so brilliant
in the pale blue expanse overhead.
I know the physics, understand cycles
of lunar time. Yet, as I stand in the street,
stare at the moon directly above me,
fully aware of the water in my body --
the fluidity of flesh -- rivers of blood
drown my mind in fascination.
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