Pregnant and empty, the moon sits at my fingertips
     Like a thrown coin...a souvenir of caution and change,
     A flameless candle holding tomorrow's light.

     Her waxing and waning is no mistake.
     Her rhythm is her own.
     Her answers are not for us.
     She calls emptiness and fullness
     Like the names of her children.
     She prays for us in her starry convent,

     With my feet on my staircase,
     I join her ancient circle,
     Remembering and remembering.


Maggie