Hiding shy behind the treetops,
Reminding me again
Of the tale of Many Moons
I read once to my son
And later to his daughters.
The princess asked
To have the moon
Or she would die.
All the wise men of the court
Told her why
She could not have it.
They said it was too far,
Too large, too hot, too cold,
Too everything.
But the wisest one,
The Fool, asked her
How big it was, how far.
She told him that it hung
Just behind the trees
And was smaller than her thumb.
I looked again tonight
And she was right.
©2016 John I. Blair
No comments:
Post a Comment