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There Are so Many troubled flickering forms
That Wander the Vast
Unstilled by Holy Need,
And driven to Seek a Source of Light
 
But the white-burning of a Star's Design
Its Revelation So Consuming
Must Needs be Sought slowly and with Care...
 
So the Quiet, faithful Moons like us Remain Plentiful
Less Constant forces: Reflections of Incandescence
Magnets, Mirrors, Conduits...
To Pull at Waves & Rolling Waters
To bend itinerant Lumins toward Mission, In the Empty Quarters of the Sky
 
Always,
whether Sprite and Willing
Or Ponderous & Resistant to this Constant Sojourn,
Serving Something
 
Proffering A Sacred, scarred Surface
Where the Sources of Love & frightened Shadows
Might find conference
And a channel through which the Angels may climb & descend
 
Holy Encounters Leave us Blemished; Cratered
 
But those wise, like the Mother Moon, Do not Hide their Scars
And only those akin to Her
 
Moving Also through the Bard of the Spheres
know by what Midnight Trials these Marks of passage are Designed
 
Who calls this constant orbit A purgatory?
Finding fullness only once in A month of Moving, Restless Nights
... And what Universal Law could condemn A burdened pilgrimage?
 
Instead,
Perhaps,
The Light that Seeks All Things
Seeks Us
And Finding us Ready
Consecrates & Quickens our pale, dusty shells
To be scorched, molted & renewed
 
This is the Nature of Moons:
We traverse darknesses; Gather shadows
& Are cleansed by burning Light
 
And if our fragile Surface ever Cracks
And our form begin to Quake
- It is because -
The Love that found us Worthy
That moves each Heavenly & Earthly Body
Now seeks a pathway to the Tinder of our Core
And Thus, Stilling the Yearning,
Sets us Ablaze As Well...