The Moon (a poem)

The moon does not Say:

“I am round and white. I reflect sunlight. I am the Moon.”

It is the moon. It reflects light. Round, and white.

Looking up to the sky you know it’s there

Your skin’s lamination

declares an existence

that needs no proof or validation

Is the moon ever shy about shining — or not shining?

I wonder, and then sleep soundly.