Moon at Half Past Noon

Forget the sermon of the generous sun.
Come, sit here.
See these hands.

The fist made in sleep,
or when the news is bad—
it holds nothing but the ache
of its own making.

A palm, curved and open,
feels the air change,
feels the first drop of rain,
and knows it is part of a weather.

It is not a theory.
It is the breath taken
deep into the lungs
after the tears are done—
given back to the world
as a cloud, a sigh,
a thing that is no longer mine.

The wind takes it
to stir a leaf
a thousand miles away.

It is the soup pot on the stove.
The onion, the carrot, the bone.
Not a possession, but a promise.
And when the door opens,
a cold face appears,
and the ladle dips into the gold,
the steam becomes the warmth
of the whole room.
No one is diminished.
We are the steam rising.
Greed is the silence
of a single mouthful.

Sharing is the language
known before words.
It is the weight of a child
falling asleep on a chest,
the trust of that entire weight.
The breath is not hoarded.
One rhythm matches the other,
and in that exchange,
both are sustained.

So when the bread is broken,
it is not a fracture.
It is the echo
of hands touching the same truth.

It is building a country
the size of a table.

A quiet network
of shared salt and crust.
This is not a grand law.

It is the way the water
in a single cup,
given to a parched root,
becomes a flower
neither could have held alone.