How Do I Keep a Moonbeam in My Hand?
Against the sunlight, your body appears transparent.
Your spirit burns bright, you are full of wit and spunk,
You are kind, crafty, funny, a cat lover,
But your frame is melting away, like a wax candle.
I reach out to hug you, and my hands touch air.
Your weightless form is so frail, I cannot grasp it.
I ask myself as I feel the empty space:
How do I keep a moonbeam in my hand?
I make one more hearty chicken casserole dish
And more homegrown tomato soup,
I buy a bouquet of flowers, write another card,
Wondering if I can do enough to keep you here.
I talk you into going on another walk
And you put on lots of layers, trying to hide
Your wraith-like frame, your gaunt look.
We go outside, enjoy fresh air and sunshine.
On cloudy days I fear the wind will pick you up
And carry you away on your umbrella,
Leaving me to stand in the rain,
Searching the overcast sky… searching
For you, for the moon, for a star in the dark.
So I ask myself again, as I reach to touch the sky:
Have I done enough to keep you here?
May I keep the moonbeam in my hand?