Why It Can't Be Like It Was

Twice this week I have watched the moon rise from my shower window,

A buttery entrance,

Peek,

Looking for her shadow,

Before emerging,

A steady ascent,

Turn a shade

Candle held behind drying bed sheets.

Spindly threads

Of a barren tree on the hill,

Crawl up,

Framed by the

One perfect

Circle

Earth will ever know.

A cobweb of obscurity,

Cracks,

Like in the moon pictures on postcards.

Better, though,

For in person

The ashen thumbprints

Reveal themselves

In a fading flicker,

And make you feel they are

yours.

Ever up.

Slow,

Not like a clock hand is slow,

Where it creeps then

Jolts in a way you can catch

If you do not blink,

But slow

Like life is.

Leisurely,

Still,

Until you look away a moment and realize that something has changed.