Hey diddle diddle, the cow ran away with the spoon. As the cow deserted, the dish lamented not for the lost spoon, but for a lost answer. Who will now jump over the moon?
The Little Prince knew the importance of such a question. “Look up at the sky,” he said, “Ask yourself, 'has the sheep eaten the flower or not?' And you will see how everything changes..."
I’ve been waxing crescent for years, partially illuminated,
a slender fraction of what could be.
Gripped by a phase in perpetual orbit, circling a
point in space that really isn't mine anymore.
Full illumination hangs visible; a watery light that attracts moths and me.
Courage is needed, the moths say patiently and repeatedly until one night it’s understood. One night, the daring that has built in your belly and strengthened in your diaphragm demands release. One night, uncontrollably, your hands funnel your mouth no longer able to muzzle what must be surrendered. One night, a mournful, untamed cry fills the air. Mockingbirds on dead branches call for you; crickets rub their wings in your honor. Octaves your ears no longer believed possible are heard. An aria so courageous the ground shakes. This is a cry the night knows. From the earth, a new moon rises illuminated. Illuminating. Slowly, eventually, quietly, the crickets still their wings; the mockingbirds leave for fresh perches. And finally, you know.
Did the sheep eat the flower?
No gravity on the moon? Ha. I’m pulled toward it every night.