By George Held
I raise the blind at dawn, ten degrees
Out there, and I see the half moon
Low in the cobalt southwest.
The day waxing and the moon waning,
Like my life, like my arrhythmic heart.
How many more cycles to fullness
Will I see that old moon achieve,
That lifetime partner in isolation,
Basking in mute reflected glory
While wearing the ball and chain,
Sentenced to wax and wane
Up there while few necks crane
To admire her or him or it—Diana,
The Old Man, that geologic target
Of telescope and spaceman.
The sky lightens to pale blue
Blanching the moon’s hue.
Why would anyone turn on the tube
While this light show’s going on?
But there’s work to be done and one
Can hardly spend hours watching
The moon wane, slim day by day
To a sliver, then wax new again
In a way that humans never can.
