Wax and wane
I marvel sometimes at the wisdom of moon;
she knows when to cut and then cut again
from the fullness of being whole in belief
to a half, quarter, less, than was ever before.
And how like a mortal to take for granted
the re-growth and smile of that one in the sky
and to look with the same kind of an eye
at the past as if still here in the present.
Moon waxes and wanes; the past stays the same
lost and locked in the archives of mind
until barely a hint of what must have been
comes under the glare of a jaundiced eye.
But to strain the eyes turned awry by the times
and gain a perspective not found in the past
a chore for the brave, the courageous, and me
now expanded into this present time.
I look back, back, and see there were dreams
that made of hope a complete mockery,
desire that tired in the long march of life,
and lost love that begat a new emptiness.
Let the moon wax and wane and suffer the strain
no more can I breathe, breathe in, a dream
or believe there’s good reason for losing the cream
love dribbles and dots on what happens to be!
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