The Moon
Apollo 11 reshapes thousands of thoughts and beliefs
on the earth,
sprawling on the lunar lap.
I wish I could collect those pre-Apollo eyes
from the sand
and show them the moon is not God.
But they belong to
the same species living in peace of ignorance today.
Fanaticism is a fireball.
True belief illuminates like the moon.
Prayer prevents the immoral anarchy.
Not a reflection of sunlight,
it’s nature’s solace spreading over the wounds.
How differently it shines in science and literature!
It’s as veracious as a breccia
that the moon is dusty, gritty and abrasive.
But that hare is more beautiful than the rocky truth.
First printed in The Literary Hatchet
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