Photo Moon Gate by Tone Aanderaa
Oh, Mother Moon
Oh mother moon, we slither from your womb writhing in your radiant light.
The glow clings to our skin; our fur wet as a newborn seal.
In cycles we are reborn over and over, one with the rhythm of the ocean tides.
But the calendars of men are Poor copyrights as they hold up their tiny fists,
clenched around paper grown in your essence; in a world rotated at your speed.
Yet as we dry and find our feet, our memory of birth fades
and your rhythm becomes something of fairy tales in bedtime stories,
to be read to children and fools who still seek beginnings.
Because to remember would be a harsh reminder that we have wandered
outside ourselves too far and become lost to the light of creation.
But you keep rising and swelling and giving birth
to multitudes of tiny clinched fists
because not to, would be the end of the story.