Moon
Moon, I know
you’re rather fickle –
not long ago
you were thin as a sickle
but look at you now –
It’s night’s high noon
and you’re fat and full
as a blown balloon.
Moon, your face
is made of light
and you hang like hope
against the night,
waxing, waning,
sometimes gone,
always changing,
moving on.
© Kate O’Neil
- Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #16