Moon at Half Past Noon

It nestles in the warmth of human hands,
When dawn spills gold through shutters worn and thin,
Does it feel alive, or dream of distant lands,
A fragile pulse beneath its feathered skin?
Their eyes, alight with care, draw joy within,
Did it sense the love that drowned its fear,
The bustle of a home where life begins,
On dusty streets where voices ring so near?
Does it peer through glass at skies so vast and blue,
And ache for winds that call beyond the sill?
Yet, in the quiet, when the day is through,
It trembles—lone—despite their tender will.
The house awakes—chai hums, a child’s delight—
As wings first flutter, hearts take flight.