La Luna

It was the dead of night

When a poet suddenly woke.

Feeling a pull in their gut,

They were coaxed outside,

Into the chilled night air

And under the bright, winking stars.

There, they found inspiration.

As the clouds lazily rolled past the bright moon,

They noticed the tufts of condensed water

Looked like they were spindly fingers

Cradling the moon

As if it were something precious.

Something beautiful that it longed to touch.

As the poet observed the exchange

Between moon and sky

They pitied the clouds.

For they would never be able to reach high enough

To come close to touching the massive rock,

Just as the moon would never be able to

Move any closer to earth.

But, in this moment

In the few minutes they had

Until the wind took the wisps away

They could delude themselves

That they were close.

So very close.

Then, the moment was gone

And all the poet was left with

Was the image of desperation

As outstretched hands reached for the moon

And the moon found itself yearning

For the ability to reach back.