Moon at Half Past Noon

A copper coin, a sun-bright gleam,
Reflected in the creek.
The stall was wide, the world a blur,
A whisper, small and weak.

He palmed it quick, a secret whir,
And held the borrowed light.
It felt no different, after all,
That fading, borrowed light.

He hid it where the floorboards slept,
Beneath a loosened nail.
The house kept watch, the secret kept,
The simple, wicked tale.

“Who took the coin?” his father sighed.
His face was cool and slow.
“I do not know,” the boy replied,
The seed began to grow.

A silver piece, a moon-cool stone,
From Grandma’s deep, wide tray.
The weight of it was soft, not bone,
A thing he took away.

He added to his hidden store,
And practiced his surprise.
His innocent face, a perfect door,
For truth to wear its lies.

“Your mother’s missing more,” Pa said,
His brow a line of care.
The boy just gently shook his head,
And offered up a prayer.

He started then to help the old,
To carry loads and packs.
His reputation, quickly sold,
Covered the winding tracks.

He’d speak of honesty and trust,
With sober, thoughtful eyes.
While in the dark and settling dust,
His hidden treasure lies.

The years, they turned, the boy, a man,
Respected and revered.
He built his house upon a plan

The neighborhood cheered.
He’d stand and talk of right and wrong,
With voice so firm and true.
Of how the weak must be made strong,

In everything we do.
One day, his son, with nervous hand,
Came holding something bright.
“I found it in the button box, Pa,

Caught in the evening light!”
The man felt something old and grave,
A tightening, cold and fast.
A ghost returned from darkness’ cave,

The shadow of his past.
He knelt, and with a gentle smile,
That never reached his eyes,
He held his son for a short while,

And fashioned his replies.
“You keep it, son. You’ve been so good,”
He said, his voice so mild.
“It’s understood. It’s understood.
You are my special child.”

And as the boy ran off, content,
The man stood in the gloom.
His virtue was his monument,
And his, the empty room.

The floorboard, hidden, dark and deep,
Holds more than coins can tell.
The promises a soul can keep,
To build its own proud hell.