The Moon


One day I stood on tiptoe in order to kiss the moon, she would have none of it. So I went down on one knee in homage, hoping for her love, again she ignored me. So I laid face down praying for her to forgive me, she shone silently upon my back with distain. So I turned to face upwards to more admire her beauty, calling for her to come down from her great height to love me. She refused to answer. I shuffled off, coated in the indignity of my ego’s masculinity – irritated by her coldness.

Then one early morn I stopped to admire a water droplet in the trumpet of a morning glory flower. She — The Moon — was in there hiding from the sun. I took the flower and ate it. So now the moon had to marry me, but it was never a shotgun wedding for I realized we are all the moon and she is us.

© Stuart Wilde