you loved its winter shine, so bright.
That makes me sorry. Even so,
it was delicious. And it felt right
to eat it. I went nice and slow.
I ate a little every night.
The moon was chewy, soft and cool.
I took small nibbles, week by week.
The taste like getting out of school,
walking barefoot in a creek,
a sculptor's hand and well-worn tool,
kisses to a baby's cheek.
And each night when I'd had my fill
I put it back, and walked along,
warm coat against the winter chill,
as if I'd done nothing wrong.
I got away with it, until
tonight. As I knew all along.
The new moon's past. It's waxing, so
it should move on its well-worn track.
It's gone away before, I know.
But now, this time, it won't come back.
