By Janet Childs
I lick the milk of the moon
drink it in like water,
I’m sure it is waxing full,
the flicker of a candle
which has been my spiritual root
to the stars.
I gaze at the skylight
(in my open eyed bedroom,
everyone else asleep)
at the slanted light.
Creamy shine of the full ‘snow moon’
winds around the casement
of our small home.
I send energy to it all;
the Ukraine, the Middle east
where people are murdered
for being themselves,
for our unhoused; the silent, grieving child.
I pray for a blanket of healing,
a touch of comfort,
a moment of sheer holiness,
the breath.
I can hear the faint sound of bird song
It swirls right before dawn,
where I would wish for one more ounce of sleep.
Maybe I need to be awake
to chronicle all that is human,
holy and flawed.
In the night turning to day,
In this turning of the wheel
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