Swaddling the Moon

The wind was excitement and cooked oats.
Expectation was a big, red circle
on the calendar.

Dreams were Crayolas
scattered on the rug,
sleepless nights in a rocking chair,
lullabies and college tuitions.

Cramped fingers
ran along fairy-tale edges,
for nine short weeks,
unable to pinch its chubby cheeks.

To dilating eyes
the sky was watered down,
but I could see vultures circling.
I screamed, threw stones,
begged them to leave,
but the horizon was crumpled tissue,
bleeding.

The moon emerged
smaller than a silver dollar
with no footprints
or photographs.

We cradled it in mournful hands
all sad words
smeared in tears,
and we never knew
whether to swaddle it
in pink or blue.