A russet moon hanging crescent
with its sharper tip nearly touching earth
is only half the story.
The obvious symbol, the dotted line
cut around to paste
its romantic shape upon flags.
I wonder if school children here
slip into the hands of crushes
as we might snowflakes or hearts
with arrows half-piercing
or our virginal hands
when the adult world’s eyes
are diverted by war.
War, with its common enemies.
War with its silent nods of resignation.
I am praying to this moon tonight
as I would any other.
Listening to American jazz
on Damascus radio.
-published by The November 3rd Club