I’m waiting for the super moon, the biggest moon, that moon that will stay in my mind for years to come, to light my old eyes when I can, no more, find moons outside my window, for there are no windows, just cinder blocks from the building next door.
I’m waiting for the super moon, in the hope that it won’t be so. That the moon, with her many shades and shapes, secrets and veils, will always be above me, stars hanging in her lobe like a young bride, her light reflected over a silvery creek that sings lullabies to two pigmy goats, four chickens and a dog.
I’m waiting for the super moon to raise a wish upon her light. To see my face in her face, my fate in her circular dance, my future in her inconstant constancy of waxes and wanes, of comings and goodbyes, of cycles that start, grow and die to start again.
I’m waiting for the super moon, to ask her to tell me that I’m not too old -that I will never be old, no the old that equals obsolete, not the old that means buried dreams, watching the grass grow without the joy of dandelions and butterflies and those tiny ants that climb the stalks of broken sticks and blades of grass to see what’s beyond the under growth.
I’m waiting for the super moon to light up my womb and fill me with new life, new goals, new hopes, new joys, new expectations, new games, new falling downs and getting ups, adventure until the end, adventure to the last breath, zest in my blood, flow in my soul, soaring high above in the evening sky, crossing like an eagle the milky sphere, to the second star to the right.