Refuge

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.