Moon at Half Past Noon

A carpenter swings his hammer down,
Wood splits, nails bite, a house is born.
He wipes his brow, his chest feels wide—
He’s built a home, a place to hide.

But boards were trees, and trees were air,
The earth just shifts what’s always there.
She dips her brush in colors bright,
A canvas blooms with morning light.

Her heart leaps high, she’s made it real,
A world in paint, a truth to feel.
Yet hues were dust, and dust was stars,
The universe keeps no new scars.

A boy at night stares up and dreams,
Of rocket ships and silver beams.
He longs to touch what lies so far,
To leave his mark beyond a star.

But dreams are sparks, and sparks are flame,
The cosmos turns, it stays the same.
We build, we paint, we chase the sky,
Our hands reach out, our spirits fly.

We think we’ve changed the world’s old face,
Carved out a new, a special place.
But energy, it twists and bends,
The ledger’s even, start to end.