The little girl looks up with wide, sorrowing eyes.
“Moon, I…”
Pauses, looks down.
Nervously pokes the earth with a shoe-tip.
Anguish overpowers all else,
Pours out, with hot spilling tears,
Into the night air,
Words stumbling over each other in the rush.
Moon above, glowing white,
Cocks his head to one side
And looks on, with a slight frown.
Voice hoarse from talking and crying,
Peters out.
Pleading, “Well ?”
Implacable, cool, with a level gaze,
He looks down-
-Briefly, then at a poet languishing
In a garden three miles away,
Exchanges a knowing glance with a solitary palm tree,
And then looks further away.
She smiles softly up at him.
“Moon, you are my only friend.”
And goes in, satisfied.
2 comments:
i like this. i can't think why no one else does. it's true, too.
I do too.
I didn't know what to say I liked it so much. All the possible piddling comments seemed so silly.
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