November 14 Poem


I suppose it started with the storybook

Goodnight Moon. The little blonde-headed

boy wants it read to him every night,

over and over again. Then he had to

go out into the dark every night

and tell the moon goodnight. I’d wrap

him up in his blanket and we would walk

out into the front yard where the moon

would be cresting the mountains in the East.

He would look up eagerly searching for

the moon, then in his tiny voice, he would

say, “goodnight moon.” Only then would

he go to bed. On those nights when the

clouds were thick and we could not find

the moon, he was sad and would sometimes

cry, and couldn’t understand where the moon

had gone.

Now an adult he still loves the moon,

especially the blue moons, and the

harvest moons, the blood moons,

and the super moons. I wonder if he

is outside tonight gazing at this super moon,

full and bright casting milky shadows across

the yard. I imagine he’s up in the mountains,

where he loves to be, away form the city lights,

where he can enjoy it without distractions.

I wonder if he remembers when he was little

and I would wrap him up in his blanket

and take him out into the front yard,

even in the dead of a cold winter,

so he could say goodnight to the moon.

Sometimes we would walk out into the

middle of the street to get a better view

and he would pivot around in my arms

anxiously looking skyward for that big

white disc, then he would see it and smile

and say, goodnight moon, and his little body

would go a little limp in my arms and

he’d lay his tiny head against my shoulder

and I would carry him to bed, smiling.

I miss that little boy with the blonde hair

and his fascination with the moon. It didn’t

matter if it was waxing or waning, full or

crescent, he just had to see the moon

and wish it a good night,

night after night.

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