Wax and Wane

The moon bubbled 

Burst beautiful on black 

A second son,

Birthed for but a moment,

Reclaimed

Two swans pass;

Silent glide, entwined.

Gentle feather plucked;

A beautiful motion. 

An alien notion. 

The moon splinters 

Fractured by their touch 

Into dust. 

It spins into view 

Dancing in legion 

Concentric spinning 

Of many selves.  

A language of shapes

That I’m not ready for 

Before falling still at last

It all fell still. 

And perfect. 

And what came next was so much worse.