The moon hung red in the sky,
too heavy for the sky to uphold
she leaned against the rooftops;
the stars glittered in fear about her.
I walked beneath her heavy laden form
and my lips formed words, whispering,
a silent prayer. In my hand I held a book,
from it I sang to the moon;
like the coyote in the night, I sang.
Words of the ancients escaped my tongue
in songs of healing, songs of hope.
Was I selfish to not want the moon to depart yet?
For it was her celestial body
that had first given me hope all those nights ago.
I spilled words from my mouth in the form of song.
They sky was pregnant with her form.
Red and old she watched me, eyes solemn.
I sang through the night
giving her the hope she once gave to me
and slowly her form retreated
back into the heavens.
The moon hung yellow in the sky,
too heavy to be crowded by clouds
she leaned over stars
who glittered quietly with her in the night.