Watering the Moon

The full moon lit up my sky last night, which was cloudless and star-filled.
My daughter tells me of my grandson trying to water the moon. He loves the moon, stories of rockets going to the moon. “Moooon. Moooon,” he croons.
“Moon,” he says, holding his watering can. “Water.”
She tries to explain that the moon is too far away to water. It’s way high in the sky, above the clouds.
He’s not even two years old yet. What does he care.
He stands on his tip-toes, lifts his arm with his watering can, positions himself at just the right spot in his perspective, and waters the moon.

7 thoughts on “Watering the Moon

  1. I decline to put “poem” into some special category reserved for slaved-over, often esoteric words that often elude comprehension for many beyond the poet. A poem to me is a simple revelation, a recounting of sorts of an event, idea, insight, question, etc. that took on a special meaning/feeling/response to the writer. In fact, as I’ve said for a long time, it’s what’s written about that’s really the poem; the words are merely a medium for sharing the poem.

  2. …my son the poet. It’s my son, I told the story, and yet, reading it as it is written here, it made me cry. Isn’t that what a poem does?

  3. Awww…. watering the moon… isn’t that just the most adorable picture, ever? Yes, absolutely this is poetry? Who gives a flying fig in what dimensions it manifests itself? This is precious. He will love you forever, your grandson, if you save this for him.
    What a lucky boy to be surrounded by so many loving, intelligent, talented people. My goodness.

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