The Axe of Civilization

The moon is punched into the sky, half hidden. Under this mid-summer half- moon a tree is carved from a block of wood; this tree effigy is of course rootless, infertile. It is the height of Barbie, or Ken, as shapely, as slender, and easily held in a hand, as the ax of civilization is held in the hand as it swings... The moon knows I am looking for its mystery, what is left of its mystery in this 21st century. How I cannot see the robots roaming its surface, and where two space explorers stepped, long ago; how I can only see it is an ancient spirit- less decor' of the celestial sphere. I stand looking up, at the moon, it always catches the eye...