Moonchild

That blood-red
moon— I would
lift you, child,
to it, toward that
great eye above
us in the heavens.

I would give you
the whole world
before there is
nothing left
of it, before we
look up and cannot
see the moon, red
or silver, shining
above us, hidden
by the smoke and ash
and dust from our industrial
fires and voracious thirst.

Will Moon miss
the tides she governed?
Will she notice no one
gazing up at her as you
will do now, my hand
guiding you upward

toward a future
toward possibility
toward aspiration
waxing and waning.