by Sabine Sicaud
Tucked in.. Tonight a lot of bedroom chatter..
The moon slips through the window; on her back
The old crone hauls her sheaves of firewood, black,
As in a drowsing calm we wonder at her.
How weary she must be beneath her pack!
What crime was hers, that-hopeless, till the crack
Of dawn-she roams the night? What was the matter?
Poor soul, so old! Was it her theft? Was it
For some dead twigs that she bows, bending low
On planet round? And when the chill gusts blow,
Must she plod on, eternal, infinite?
Why drag her through the sky till day's first light?
Sleep, now... We close our eyes and lock them tight.
Moon, let the poor thing sit and rest a bit.
Last updated March 19, 2023