Saturday, January 3, 2009

Mothers Day Present

By chance and destruction
Came the birth of the moon
Torn mantle from the earth's crust
Struck by a foreign body
And flung into space

The young satellite is wicked
in the violence of her own existence,
as is the rib of Adam.

Spinning through the darkness
Skidding, swirling to a stop
Looking back in defiance
And watching from a distance

Anger matures to resolution,
and she becomes cool comfort.
Her beams reach through the night
to find us, to show us the way.

She draws the eyes of women,
and we all see
ourselves.

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