Moon at Half Past Noon

Old Man and the Red Sea

At dawn, the old man sweeps his floor,
The morning hums at his door.
The sun yawns gold, the sparrows sing,
A chickadee tries out its wing.

He breathes the air, so crisp, so sweet,
Then sits to play with cloven feet—
His goats, his hens, his patch of green,
The kindest life he’s ever seen.

A wren builds nests, a finch feeds young,
The same old song, yet freshly sung.
Each day, the earth unwraps her grace,
A gift renewed in time and space.

Then—thud. A shadow, vast and grim,
A giant, red from limb to limb.
His jaws drip meat, his skin hangs torn,
His eyes are wild, his voice is scorn.

“Did you think I’d never come?
Did you hope to stay so numb?”
The old man sighs, “I knew you would,
Though I’ve lived gentle, wise, and good.

My fathers spoke of you before—
The endless war, the ceaseless gore,
Till every hue is drowned in red,
And earth is but a ball of dread.”

The giant laughs, “You fool, you dream!
Life is not this lazy stream.
You think your goats, your bread, your song
Are all there is? You’re dead—you’re wrong!

I bring you purpose, sharp and bright:
Vengeance! Faith! A holy fight!
Ambition! Progress! Righteous flame!
You’ll thank me when you bleed for fame!”

The old man shakes his weary head,
“No. I’ll not walk your road of red.
Earth gives us breath, and sun, and rain,
And nights to rest, and peace to gain.

We fight, we laugh, we weep, we mend,
We tell our tales before the end.
There’s nothing more—no grand design,
Just love, and work, and bread, and wine.”

The giant snarls, “Then rot in peace!
But mark me—war will never cease.
Your green will burn, your birds will flee,
And all will drown in my red sea!”

The old man smiles, “Perhaps. But now,
I’ll tend my goats and milk my cow.
And if some lost soul stumbles near,
I’ll teach him how to live—not fear.”

The giant roars, then fades to dust,
For now, the old man stands his trust.
The dawn still breaks, the birds still call—
The red may rise, but green won’t fall.