Moon at Half Past Noon

Another tick— the ceiling fan’s persistent spin.
Another tock— the family rolling in.
Forget the highlight reel, the curated, grand;
The world is in the worn wood we hold in-hand.
The lease is signed, the paint is wearing thin,
This raucous, patched dominion we are settled in.

Let shadows lounge against the grocery bags,
Ignore the digital, comparing tags.
I’ll take the shared weight of a real, full life—
The partner’s sigh, the friend’s recounted strife,
The child’s “watch me!” pulling at the air,
A claim upon the plain and present here.

To wake’s a choice—a stubborn, kind resolve.
We find the morning as our world revolves
Around the coffee for a friend, the kids’ routines,
The brushing off of ghosted might-have-beens.
Then step outside—a small, rebellious act
Against the tracked and algorithm-packed.

We’ll face the traffic of a Tuesday grey
To bring the bread, to choose the words we say,
To keep the tiny promise, made and meant:
“I’ll be there.” Simple. True. The time well spent.
From neighbor’s nod to stranger’s quiet smile,
This is the hourly, tangible mile.

I’m grateful for the chaos and the calm,
The proof of use within a resting palm.
Not for the perfect, but the patched, the true—
The crayon marks, the friend who sees you through,
The family chorus, sometimes sharp, sometimes sweet,
The strangers’ eyes we’re privileged just to meet.

The rhythm isn’t clockwork; it’s the chore,
The open door, the “please come in” once more.
Another tick— the space where laughter swells.
Another tock— the story that one tells.
No grand design, no finish line to cross,
Just this, the gathering, against the loss.
To stand right here, with all this life entwined,
Is substance. Your hand in mine.
This brief, astounding bind.