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“At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” – Plato

* * *

It’s another full moon night.
Are you thinking of me?

How many times, I wonder
have astronomers and sky watchers
turned into poets and philosophers
just for finding a different way
to describe
something they saw
up there
as a testament of
how much easier they found it
than to describe
something they felt
in here?

The thing about the heavenly bodies
or seasons, for that matter
is they never change
even if we do.
I’ve spoken of full moons to you
and last quarters
looking like
God’s thumbnail in the sky
and those very same lunar phases
bore witness to how
our love deteriorated
over the constant cycles
of the earth’s rotations
their sentinel-like silence
a mockery of our transience

and summer!
We made plans for the summer
it could have been the first summer
or the last
of the rest of our lives
—it turned out to be neither—
when the world has seen millions of seasons
and every time it sheds its frock
and dons a new one
it does without reservation
it could snow as if
there were no tomorrow
or shed leaves as if
trees would never need leaves again
or be painfully reborn into spring as if
it never wanted to see winter again
only to bloom into summer as if
it didn’t need to set aside
any leftover colors for a rainy day
the world shows its cards
all the time
holding nothing back
like a lover who has never been so sure
more sure than
morning would come tomorrow
after tonight

and down here on earth
people continue to fall in love
and get their hearts broken
paying tribute to the heavens
and the majesty of the trees
who don’t even need them
and would go on even if without them.

Let’s save the celestial metaphors
for the more lasting things.
There is only one sun.