My Moon

My moon is hung with strands of hope by night
And fades to a reminder in the day’s light

Outshone momentarily by another minor star
My moon is shadowed, but never far

And it may be occasionally eclipsed
But with scrutiny can be glimpsed

It plays just out of the tree’s jealous claws
And follows none of man’s constricting laws

My moon bestows a dim, precious glow
On the otherwise dark path below

My moon has years beyond conception or thought
And never is affected by battles wrought

My moon has been hung by yarn and by thread on a spool
To attempt is downfall, I’d be a fool