singing to the moon

I wonder why you stare at me,
And then I wonder not.
For once I had some clarity,
Which since then I’ve forgot.

The moon smiles down upon Earth,
A scintillating glow.
And every night I hope and pray
That he’ll repeat the show.

My mother sings to me each night,
“The moon’s a wandering clown,
Which slowly, monthly, night by night,
Turns a smile from a frown.”

My father speaks more practically,
(He’s an educated man.)
“The moon is made of greenish cheese,
That’s been fried up in a pan.”

But Grandpa is my wisest friend,
He knows his story’s true.
“The heavens wished to have a child,
And from the sun it grew.”

I dared to ask my Auntie,
Though she has superstitious fear,
“Such talk about the wicked moon
Will soon bring witches here!”

So I wonder why you stare at me,
From your crib, my baby sis.
For once I had some clarity,
And that, I think, is this:

The moon is not a cheesy thing,
Nor a wandering fellow is it.
It doesn’t call the sun its mom,
Or make witches pay a visit.

The moon is made of dust and rock,
No water should there be,
But no matter what it has inside,
It’s beautiful to me.

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