The moon is caught,
safely held in the branches of the tree.
The children would climb
higher and higher
delighting in the fearful height.
I never watched,
afraid my presence below would cause
a careless step, a loosened grasp
and the awful plummet to the ground.
Now they are in the world
and I do not ask
of encounters, lovers’ quarrels.
Entering their space I could
precipitate the dreaded fall.
written 11-94, taken “Out of the Cradle” 2/2/95