The Moon Does Not Regret Her Winter

The moon does not regret her winter,
Or the torn strands of gray chiffon
That cover her face tonight.

As this dew shelters the dry grass like tears,
And shadows of dark leaves
Wait to wither into morning,
The moon fades,
A goddess,
Empty of desire or light.

No, the moon does not regret
This burial of love.
In the coldness of her solitude,
She will not weep tears of rust,
Or betray herself with petty despair.

She has her own time and place,
that which is eternal surrounds her.

The moon does not regret dust,
Or the accumulation of her years,
Or this sadness beneath salt, beneath bone.

When full, she is round and cold
and then she narrows, changes into perfect crescent.

You were like the moon, I never understood
the subtle ways in which you changed.
I only know that like the moon at crescent,
I, too, have lost three-quarters of myself.




Copyright (c) Velene Campbell, 2004. All rights reserved.