Moon at Half Past Noon

The question hangs, a poisoned vine,
A bitter, twisted weed of thought.
When glaciers weep to sullen seas,
And forests fall to barren leas,
When every headline screams the end,
On which frail thread should we depend?

The cynic’s laugh, a hollow sound—
“Your goodness is a fallow ground.
Why plant a seed in burning sand?
You cannot stay the desert’s hand.”

I think of him. The car. The glass.
The silent, waiting, plush expanse.
The butterfly of dust and grace
That landed in that sacred space.
He could have sealed his heart in stone
For a lost father, long alone.
He could have said, What use is love?
When it is taken, far above.

But in that quiet, rolling room,
A different answer dared to bloom.
Not as a trade, a balance sheet,
To make the sorrow less complete.
It was a bridge. A thread of light.
Spanning the abyss of night.

So what is good, if not a tree
That grows in solemn dignity,
And offers shade, not to be spared,
But simply because it dared?

Goodness is the quiet No
To the chaotic, crushing flow.
It is the breath that will not cease,
A stubborn, gentle, kind disease.
It is the candle by the grave,
A tiny, defiant, golden gave.

The planet may, in eons, heal,
Beneath a sun’s unfeeling wheel.
New life will rise from our long stone…
But we are here, and now, alone
With this decision, brief and bright—
To be a mirror to the night,
And still reflect.

We do not stop.
We are the single, steady drop
That wears the stone. The counter-tide.
The love we choose, and do not hide.
The world’s great weight, misunderstood…
The candle holds its fragile good.
It does not ask if it should.