Poem by Brian Palmer

πάντα ῥεῖ

—Heraclitus

The gibbous moons’ expectant shapes are vexing.

I’d rather they were always full, or half, or crescent:

potential reached, or on the fence, or nothing much to lose.

That one full moon I carried in the pocket

of my faded jeans with scraps of poems, sketches,

maps that took me down the road of being who I was.

That half-moon I held tightly one cold midnight,

timberline, spring equinox, when I half-longed

for winter on the mountain, half for summer down below.

That crescent moon with its bright scimitar

of light I clung to for protection on my wild

flight, arcing, sublimating like a comet towards the sun.

Perhaps it’s time to lose those moons, the heaviness of needing

the certainty of steadfast things, the desperation

for an ageless time. Stop the ponderous thinking

I can be immutable as tides (though even moonless,

I might lie at night and look for comfort in

the constancy of circumpolar stars),

embrace the truth that I, like months and moons, move on unfazed,

(though secretly I bet with Thoth for silver shards

to make more days to bear my same old self).

The shape of gibbous—both in wax and waning—proves

the moon is whole, unchanging always changing. Me?

Change is all I had, have, and all I’ll ever have.

Brian Palmer