Mama Moon

Mama Moon shines down,

her great

gold face full,

lush as a ripe peach

hovering low

against black velvet.

I can barely tear

my eyes away, sneak

peeks at her as I drive:

her gentle, wise face

serene yet concerned,

full of a knowing

eons old.

The more I look at

her, the more I want

to howl, send her some

music from that

animal place inside.

I want to proclaim my

love when she is:

a delicate sliver of light,

a brilliant white orb peeking

in at me through my

attic window, a sultry

fiery ball hugging low

to the horizon, and most

of all, a great gold

mama watching over

her precious, weary

earth.

She reaches her arms

around us, protectively.

We feel her touch as

she caresses our oceans

every morn, every

eve. We schedule

our lives by her, our

time, as people always

have. She whispers to

our wombs, urging eggs

to release, babies to

sprout or blood to

cleanse.

Let me sing to you

Mama Moon, as you

glide through our skies,

circling round and round

tirelessly, as any

loving mother will do

for her beloved children.

Bless us, Mama Moon.

[Copyright 2002, Theresa Jarosz Alberti; do not reproduce without permission.]