Up before wrensong,
the crescent moon and I whisper
so as not to wake the day.

She in her nightgown and I in mine,
we sit on the porch
in the cool air of early dawn.

And she listens.

I tell her of my fears-
numbering my inadequacies,
trembling in my regret,
tears flow freely
as the early morning dew.

With her sweet comforting smile,
she tells of her birth –
new moon to slim crescent,
waxing to full, rounded glory
to only wane past gibbous
into the palest slip of light
to be welcomed into the dark womb
of restful night.

Waxing and waning,
we each sigh
as the dawning sun
and the wren greet the day.