Mysterious moonlings, what are they?
High-voiced, small statured;
The lingering other.
Moved like the tides.
Awakened wild-eyed by the full moon moonlight.
Sometimes they are crazy. Sometimes they nod
In a wisdom known only between themselves
And the white orb that guides them.
They know the moon as we do not know the moon.
Men dream:
Feet upon a rocky surface,
Dust between the fingertips,
Low-gravity buoyancy.
They drift. Wane and wax. Full to new.
Round as a mother. Refreshed and renewed.
They place their fingertips on their stomachs and their eyes to the skies
Waiting for another moon.
By Rowena Fletcher-Wood
