Crescent Moon (or, To a Friend)
By Daniel Egitto
I know it is so cold up there
so deep inside your night
but when you smile for us, soft and silent,
it’s easy not to see how fast you’re waning.
I know it’s all empty, there—
no air, no earth to walk on—
and in your sky it is so dark I know
you must be freezing.
Know, we are watching you here below.
Know that we have so many things to tell you.
How many times have we, little birds,
tried to fly up to you, tweeting, tweeting—
but you are so far
too far to hear us.
Our air is too thin to fly to you
and we, poor birds, can’t see in the night.
And so we are left here, tweeting, tweeting
and you are left there, so far away.
If only you’d come closer, one of these mornings
before you wane away
you would hear us
and the songs we sing from our branches.
We are singing the earth’s song
bright and living
and we sing and we sing and sing and sing—
if only you could hear us.
We are singing of our branches
and the wind that teases them
and of the raindrops
and the way they splash our wings
and of the sunlight and the rivers
and the leaves the breezes gather
and of joy and pain and gladness and hurt
and looking and tasting and touching and breathing
we sing of our air
and our leaves all red and orange-yellow
and of the branches, black, they leave behind—
we are singing the day-song
and we sing and sing it louder—
but you are the moon, and you are so far away