La Lune

I was never on the moon. In fact, the closest I came to the bulb in the sky was dancing with her reflection in the lakes of Michigan. She would come out late at night, bright. Thick and smiling, as is if to tease us of her distance from reality and mortality. I love to play in her shadows. Hiding from the realness of the daytime, from the burn of the sun and the ache of the heat. Her shadows hid me from dead soldiers and women without rights. Her shadows protected me from the parts of myself I dare not explore, for they were to sad. My moon, she has sheltered me. My moon, white in the waves of the night wind. And in the morning, the only thing telling that I touched the white round of the moon was the sand in my hair.