Moon Gift

Sometimes the moon
Rises slowly
Weighted girth moving upward
With some sighing effort
Plump, still-life fruit of a moon
Distinctly 17th century

But Sunday's moon
Rose fast and slim
Flat and round and rising
Sliding up against the night
A thin communion wafer of a thing
Shining there quite crisply

And I smiled at the night
The dark backdrop that seemed so strong
And the glowing, gift reflecting light
Offered as it hung there
That I might just look up
And accept it