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.

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