The past two nights,
at four hours past midnight
while some percentage of the world population slept,
the sun shining elsewhere, and
children played or picked dandelions

the moon fell from the sky, becoming
one of those Herculean tasks,
like pyramids, or Easter Island,
or the Coliseum.

Heave ho, help your mother pick up the moon.
In every bed, in every house in this old neighborhood,
even the early-risers were still snoozing,
slippers waiting, cats curled and dogs dreaming.

So when your mother asks for your help,
you see she's old and frail but forgiving beyond measure.
I find myself so blood-tired but
the moon has fallen
and someone must do something about it.

Reflected in a dark window without curtains,
moonbeams, moondreams have now streaked my hair.
Although my mother, God love her,
has had white-moon-hair forever.

Together, we lift our weary mother/daughter arms high,
crisscrossing, until her arms become my arms,
or so it seems, putting the moon back
where it belongs in the sky.

*originally posted as prose, rewritten at the kind suggestion of etouffee, with appreciation

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