The moon is my mother

Lucina, laboring like a white star, your face
Of white flesh, your ancient father grey-bearded,
Weary, cold and planetary; I am separated
From you both, the earth door is quiet.

In despair, I live here, abandoned— a dark crime,
Soberly resurrected, bending like field grass,
Their mild eyes, tender in a wafted breeze. I have
Fallen a long way, white palms, no labor reddens.

Mother, you see nothing of this— you are not sweet
Like Mary. Her hands of holiness lift me from the
Cold pews of your silence. The clouds of darkness
Are flowering blue and mystical over your moon face.

Copyright © 04/03/2019 lance sheridan®

The moon is my mother