Fable

east of where we settled
was a bleached tree, spear-ended,
open-seamed.  on the nights
the full moon hung upon its top,
we built fires along the beach
and danced from one to the other,
all the while staring up.

later, when we’d grown too large
for the original camp, we spread out
and someone took down the tree
in the dark of the month, possibly
to burn, possibly to build with.
we did not seek the thief,
preferring instead to imagine
a better solution: that some god
had lifted it from us to free the moon.

nevertheless, we still build fires
and dance, having the good sense
to decide that while the moon is no longer ours,
we still belong to the moon.  we have that amazing
capacity: to imagine a change and interpret it
when in fact there has been no change.
all that’s changed is the rationale we use
to hold onto our past.  that, and this:
we do not sweat as much joy as we once did.