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Moon Child

“Come to me, child of the moon…”
the Night Wind cried and sighed
and would not be denied.
Moon Child stood very still, unyielding,
alone on a stalwart mesa
where sand scoured the soul.

“I cannot, for I do not live…”
called Moon Child to the restless wind 
that blew her skirt.
“If you speak, you live, my child…”
Wind whirled round Moon Child in dusty desperation.

“I breath, but do not live…”
said the pale fragment of flesh, 
standing still as death.
Wind played its tune 
upon her cheek, crescendos vivid,
but it stirred nothing 
in the heart of Maiden Moon Child.

All the long day Wind argued,
cajoled and teased, taunted 
and whispered secrets long unheard.
But Moon Child would not be moved.
Her silence echoed from the mesa 
and reverberated off canyon walls.

At last Moon Child spoke her story:
“I loved and loved well, 
with all the being within me, I loved.
He took my love and ground it into the soil,
spat on it and destroyed 
its lovely essence with his callous hate.”

“Forever more shall I stand here,
guardian of the hearts of women 
who give of themselves to unworthy
monsters whose fists flail and whose tongues 
cut the throats of she 
who faithfully stands by in innocent waiting.”

And thus the Maiden stands yet, upon the Mesa of the Moon,
ever alert to hearts that cry with sour rejection and are bereft of hope.

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