The Moon

By: Megan Pederson, Poetry Editor

Every night, I speak to the moon

We speak after the wind stops whipping,

And when it's done hiding in the clouds.

Its soft glow replenishes me, 

As if it's giving me its light before fading into the morning dew.

Borrowing its light from the sun,

Only to pass it down to me.

It's the moon that wipes my slate clean. 

It washed away this year's impurities, 

As it will wipe away next year's too. 

I tell it all I know, 

From the whispers I hear in the trees,

To the rustling in the bottom of the ocean;

Slowly, with the summer, 

The moon will begin to disappear. 

It will leave me to think on my own

Our conversations become brief and almost painful; 

Simply because I know I will be alone soon. 

All I will have left are fond memories from before, 

And the memories will keep me yearning for when we will meet next.