Grandmother Moon Takes a Personal Interest
Knocking on my door, Grandmother Moon
shifts from maid to crone in endless
variations. I hide, not wanting
her wisdom or her transformations.
I hide to stay a maiden—frozen
in youth. "Gray hair. Wrinkles.
Are they the price of wisdom?" I ask.
Tears tumble down my cheeks, as she says,
"Nothing stays the same." With light
strokes, she paints my laughter lines, sagging
jowls, and silver sparkles on my face.
Her moonlight quiets my fears and I lie content.
Published in Inside Out.