Reddened moon, dipped in blood and dust
Arcs upward and sheds its red for white.
Obscurity in those corridors where
light and thought do not touch.
My son watches the shadow slip away
And cheers as the moon is whole again,
White again.
It was always full, I say. But its light
is not its own.
The moon doesn't change color, I tell him.
You can't become yellow under a lamp, I tell him.
His finger follows the moon like an antennae,
And his mouth forms a tiny circle.
The moon does what it wants, he says.
The moon is tied to the Earth, I tell him.
We stand and watch and our shadows
glide over the grass like the ominous passing
of time itself.