The pieces of creamy clouds kept cradling that moon.


You know the one. 

Not the silken yellow with mediocre orange streaks one

Not the one with the look of broken eggshells hiding in the redwood canopy

Nor the one of latte with those leaves drawn in the foam—

Not that moon.


But what about today’s cradled moon?

You know the one.

It’s the bowl of egg drop soup

A bit cloudy, eggs stirred until only shreds float lacily on the surface


That’s the one

That’s the moon



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