My Nana made a comment about the moon and clouds. That's it. That's the inspiration.
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 as if they were spindly fingers
Cradling the moon
As if it were something precious.
Something beautiful that it strives to reach.
As the poet observed the exchange
Between moon and sky
They pitied the clouds.
For they would never be able to go 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
The ability to reach back.