Gripping the sides
of the plastic boat,
tight in her father’s arms
for now, a little one looks up
and prays that the crescent moon
should toss down an anchor,
signalling land.
The same crescent moon
is spied by my daughter
through her bedroom window,
high above the backyard maple,
upon which to make
a young girl’s fervent wish
before I tuck her in.
Goodnight, moon.

#16 of 30 Poems in November to benefit Center for New Americans.