She lives in the certainty of

eternity and I am resigned to the prospect

of nothing.

She has felt the knife

more deeply than I and she is

not unscarred but she is still

standing,

and still unbreakable.

The world outside of our garden home

is beyond help,

but she transcends, resting on

the Nazarene, while I rage

in the futile sundown.

Her Zen essence will always be

a glass through which I see

darkly,

but I will always stand with her, whether I understand it

or not,

because she is not just Moon to my Sun.

She is the last face I hope to ever

see,

and I have no right

to ask anything else.