Our Phases Of The Moon Poem by Cheryl Lynn Moyer Peele

In the first phase, brand new in the light
there seemed perfect pears, darling daisies,
warm mother's milk, then the long melting
marshmellow of days, where mother's
strong hands lifted me up from her lap,
each moment's view more glorious,
just beyond my reach.

In the second phase, with fully rounded days
illuminated by walks through wild strawberries,
barefoot toes dug into the earth. The mind too
expanded to hold it all. By then I found
words enough to describe a loved one's hands
and the immensity of their touch.

In the third phase, the waning light
began unwinding the days that had been full
of lemonade and wine, sunshine and moonbeams,
slowly closing the worldly eyes, slipping
past the beauty of all sight and all words
to the simple poetry within.