Must I Hate the Moon?
The moon appears first
as a mere sliver of brightness in a desolate sky,
a tantalizing hint of light's possibilities;
Then it grows slowly into a brilliant spectacle of
illumination in regular fulfillment of heaven's expectation.
The moon shines every month whether I want it to or not.
Yet alone, without your love, I cannot bear to look at it.
I've come to resent its relentless measure of my life;
Month after lonely month in exile
from the continuation of my becoming.
I can do nothing to stop the moon from rising,
anymore than I can prevent the sun from bathing in the ocean.
Perhaps I should despise the sun as well.
Its rising brings no comfort
and its departure over the horizon yields no delight.
Love should rejoice at the sight of a glistening full moon,
or the cosmic farewell of a setting sun.
But longing is the only reaction possible for me.
I now live in the shadows, in the unlit part of consciousness,
removed from the brightness of heavenly bodies.
In the warm mist of memory I cling to the preciousness of a life
that was worth living.
The soft, red embers of a dying fire are all that remain
to illuminate and comfort of a once full heart.
I hate the moon for being so proudly full,
the sun for making the sky weep red tears at day's end, and
The stars for standing a never-ending vigil
each night we are apart.
Without the light and strength of your love
life holds no wonder, no pleasure, no purpose.
Deep inside this broken heart are a moon, a sun, and even stars
Wait... wait to burst forth in celebration of a new Genesis.