One night while wondering in a park alone

I spoke, to no one in particular

Where has the moon gone?

And was overheard by a pleasant stranger

Of modest height and sturdy build,

His face was hidden from the light,

his shadow fell upon me as he stepped from under a tree

“I took it!”

He declared as if I should have known

“You took it? Why?”

His stature softened as he approached,

head slightly stooped.

“I took it for my love,

You see, she loves the moon,

and on the night we first meet

I will give it back to her.”

“Who is your love?”

I questioned interestedly

Shyly he answer

“I do not know,

But have you ever longer for something, someone,

You did not know,

for the one to laugh with and to hold,

the one your heart knows but eye don’t recognize.

That is her,

My Love.”

I stood there pondering as he walked away,

What does this all mean?

Then he turned back to say,

“So when you see the fateful moon again,

Know this,

That I have stolen and return what was never mine,

To gain the 0ne my heart would recognize”

 

This is a poem I wrote several years back and even though they are my own words I often find new comfort in these words. This is probably my favorite piece of writing that I have ever done. So often as writers all we can do is criticize and critique our work and not enjoy it as the piece of art it is, this piece is one of the very few that I feel proud enough of that the voice of criticism gets turned off and I read it, almost anew, like I had never heard it before. You may thing this a silly thing to love about your own writing but is one of the reasons I continue to write, so that I can reread a story one day and be so happy with it that I completely forget that I know all about it and I can see it clearly as the read would.

Until Then…

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