twelve

the moon knows my phases

i show her my many faces

and she reads them all.

she is not active like my mother

slow moving through the sky

and i, drinking tea

in the moonlight

rely on both their counsel.

i love her with a varying intensity,

her song has no title and no tune

yet i still find myself writing nightly 

in her glow.

the sun on the other hand

has less compassion and

offers more comfort.

i am here with the ants

jostling for her attention

the way i did with my father

back through the times i'd

rather forget but instead of regret

i channel the energy to

keep the pen moving.

escaping anything in the sunshine

and wishing on the wind.