man in the moon

“The moon is a reminder that no matter what phase I
am in, I am still whole.”―Unknown
 
the man in the moon          
                              carried a bundle
of sticks on his head,
                              his banana-rush
katta cushioning
                              the brunt of the weight.
he whistled a tune
                              to keep his trundle
but one step undead,
                              for the evening blush,
by his reckoning,
                              could not lag too late.
 
in his right-hand grip
                              was a steel machette;
by a left-hand leash
                              traipsed his winsome dog;
and his dunlop boots
                              kept a strident beat.
many moons do slip,
                              many nights forget,
where to find a niche,
                              when the evening fog
covers branch and roots,
                              and the hours are fleet.
 
after many moons,
                              i can no more find
what has ill-become
                              of the poor old man,
or his winsome dog,
                              or his load of sticks.
yet too soon to swoon,
                              i am weak and blind,
searching for a home
                              with a lighting plan.
let the stars keep log,
                              while i build with bricks.
 
© Copyright 2023 July 25
by Clyve A. Bowen♫