Moon, you are large tonight –
they say you haven’t been any larger in the last sixty-eight years.
You are round with spots
and have a glow around you
which you share coldly with the earth.
When I was a kid, and would refuse to eat,
my mother would look at you
through the balcony of my house and say:
There is a woman weaving yarn on the moon.
I would gaze at you in awe, while my mother would
feed me with a handful of food.
In your cold bright light that you spread as a blanket
on the earth tonight, Moon, I see
quiet homes where people are sleeping,
fields where the crops have been reaped,
and an owl or two flying to the distant trees.
The crickets make a rhythmic sound, and sometimes
a dog howls in the far end of the fields.
Moon, I wish I could reach out my arms to you,
grab you with my hands,
keep you in a glass jar,
and place it on the table beside my bed
to illuminate my room –
well-cleaned and decorated,
so that I have something to gaze at
and engulf my loneliness
while I wait for my love who only thinks of me
once in a blue moon.