Moon

Round things are only sometimes soft. 
The curves that encompass infinity are unbreakable,
as much as we pound 
and pray.  

Unbreakables fill the heart with the too sweet smell of flowers, 
with the ephemeral notion of spring rain. 

Round things are perfect, 
Achingly warm in the hand of someone who cries 
because life cannot dance as a round thing dances, 
because their empty complicated soul has no weight
and can never smell like flowers. 

The moon is a woman, 
a round woman. 

I know she has kind eyes, 
but she can only watch.