T. A. Cullen
The moon rose like a lost lamb over a dark
hill. It wandered west seeking a pasture.
A place to graze, a nomadic home. A stark
contrast to the lunar cycle. A cure
for the continual wane and wax. Life’s
dull and repetitive circling of Earth.
That small bright blue ornament, so rife
with crazy life that cannot see its worth.
Still songs drift into space a smile, sad refrain
words of embrace and nightmare, wars, and schemes
that swallow worlds, but with effort and strain -
it still spins and shepherds still have means
enough to follow rocky trails down oblique
hills to find a lamb in new clover by a creek.