Jan 08

waxing moon


his shoulders stretch, 

just enough for a child’s heart 

to rest carefully on the edge of his 

collar bones. 

His arms are weighted just right, so that

an embrace from him feels like

home. 

His hands reconnect wires and heartstrings like he could do it while asleep. 

He bleeds his veins into his family. 

Into their own tendons. 

He pokes and prods at the gates 

between here and there. But

he knows his time is not near. 

He knows he must stay and whisper 

his sweet nothings into the ears of 

His three stars. 

He is the moon,

Light and dark,

known and unknown,

always changing;

but never leaving.
About the Author: lila woodard
everyone is a genius, but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid — Albert Einstein
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