Letter to the Moon

Dear Moon,

I've looked for the man with-in my whole life,

that face they said was yours,

the one carved in craters and shadow,

the man who lives in your light.

Some nights I see him clearly

his sorrowful mouth, his patient eyes

watching every human thing unfold

while he stays suspended, unchanging.

Is he lonely up there? Does he mind

being the canvas for our projections,

the myth we needed to make you

more familiar, more like us?

Or maybe he's the truth beyond our words,

that you were always nearby,

always more than rock and moon-dust,

forever holding consciousness,

a witnessing presence

we felt before we had expressions for feeling.

The man in the moon is you

and you are him,

neither separate nor symbol,

only the soul we sensed

in your silver attention,

the way you've watched us

through every dark age and golden era,

through love and war and ordinary Tuesdays,

never turning away.

Tonight, I see him again,

or maybe I see you seeing me,

and I wonder if you've been writing back

all along, in tides and phases,

in the way you make shadows

dance across my bedroom wall,

your letter to us, the ones

who never stopped looking up.

Always yours,

A witness to your witness