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The Moon Is Not Like Us
Last night I watched the Moon sink behind the sandstone mountain.
Quicker and quicker she cloaked herself in the dark, coyly, with rocky cliff shadows to keep her guard.
The Moon is not like us. Not like the Sun either. She has no light of her own and she suffers for this.
She's cold, a cold mother. Yet, still, she is able to follow each and every one of us. That is as far as she gets, that is how close she can get. Human, insect, plant, animal - they still long for the cold mother. They hope.
Hope keeps us going. Or at least that is the lie we tell ourselves. Hope is just like the Moon -
Appearing on a whim. Fickle, restless
She follows us, she's looking, searching, desiring,
Her own warmth, her own light. To keep, to share.
But there is none. She has none.
And I understand her loneliness, her isolation.
I understand because every morning I wake -
I am one with her terrible ache.
