Moon at Day

The Moon at Day

I see the moon at day, low down in the sky and wonder:
Why does it show itself against the pale blue of my day?
Could it be that the sun grows dimmer and dimmer
in this cheerless frozen foggy gloom of early winter?

Or is the global gray appearance simply a symptom of
the slow coming of the quickening and the end of time?

And wonder: How many times have I seen the moon at day—
with eyes closed, and back turned towards the business of my busy day,
working without conjecture, no sense or awareness, or even pausing
to reflect upon the meaning of the blue-gray moon at day?

Could it be coming more and more often, emerging from behind
the blue-gray veil of space, without my noticing it in my busy way?

Or do I just now notice that the blue-gray sky holds
this crazy moon at day, not even knowing the moon at day
is a regular phenomenon in the routine of the fight of daily living?
And could it be that a gift has been given to me as I ponder the meaning

of the moon at day, and marvel at the way the white and blue global figure
barely contrasts against a pale blue-gray crispy cool background?

And then I realize that I too have been fading against the dreary sky of my life,
a moon at day myself, with the only exception being that I no longer have
a world in which to revolve around, and the weight of this knowledge causes
a deep sob to push back up through the gravity of the one called me,

until I notice that deep in the gray-brown tree-line that cushions the earth
from the fall of the sky, stands a family of deer with a buck, a doe, and

the only one moving is a gift to them in the form of a wide-eyed fawn.
And I, the fawn of my curiosity, suddenly see in the moon at day
a symbol of the wisdom that causes the buck and doe to stand still,
for the moon at day is merely a moment in time, yet its splendor

helps me see the design, and my sob turns to an acute attention
to the tick of time, for as the moon at day fades away, my mood turns okay.