New Moon Melange

(for Harlan Rivers originally,
and now for Aparna,
who reminded me
how I used to write
in the golden era of
seven years of plenty, so long, so ago...)

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The softest cotton,
Wears ever softer with every use.

Contemplative introspection,

Like digging a castle & moat in the sandy beach,
You dread and joy, the knowing,
Incoming tide will arrive destructive inevitable,
Yet fill the moat, protect the kingdom,
Till is undone and returned to the blocks of minuscule,
Grains of sand.

Answers found, maybe lost, once more,
Necessitating questioning, non-stop processing,
And a rebuilding tomorrow... Pas de choix

But softer each time, easier with practice.

Even if convoluted, it is still a revolution.
Like twelve new moons, recycled.
(occasionally a lucky thirteenth appears)

Some of us are special chosen,
To essay, to assay, the condition human,
With a rock axe, tiny slivers chipped off,
And yet new moon stones uncovered,
needy of Cataloging,
introspection,

You can change the day,
The month,
The moon twelve, thirteen times,
Hell, You can change your **** hat,
But don't fool nobody,

You are one of the special,
You job to paint the verbal paintings,
And to ascertain the meaning interior.

For in doing so, you do all of us service.
For your eyes see it ever so differently,
For you, task, paint and reveal each
New Moon’s Melange,
your unchosen gift.
to you