We, the Moon Watchers
They used to call us moon watchers,
our eyes of guardian drones
gazing the random access points
of a diverting canvas of sleeping dreams.
My father’s old telescope shows me your surface,
your craters in which your skeletons may hide,
or where your cold rocks lay
without motion.
You must feel alone,
the uninhabited space much vacant,
the stars much too distant
to communicate.
Oh, but fragile moon, take heed of this:
we shall remain as your shadows,
animations of the hills that connect the valley’s still.
Sincerely, we, the moon watchers.
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