I wrote a moon,
a near new moon,
the other day
while the door
opened wide
for my morning.
It turns out
I was on the wrong side
of the house,
looking
in the wrong sky
to find her.
She was not west
as she had been
all winter.
She'd shifted.
she'd gone
east.

And I was in a hurry.

And then, when
all was quiet once again
a day had gone by,
and another layer
of dark had shifted up
the face of her.

Her abaya of silk
is a gauzy shield
on too bright days.
Cool beneath it
she is renewing.

And moons
are patient.  You know,
somewhere,
perhaps not here,
but somewhere,

they are always full.
They never feel
neglected. 
Reflected, but never
neglected. And thus
forgiveness is
a song that, when it leaves
the throat of the bird
is transformed
in the ear of the one
who listens,
the one who,
once new again,
lets slip, a thread at a time
the abaya of dark
that is the edge
of the world.