the eye in the sky

They say don’t point at the moon or your ear will be cut. In that world, the crescent is savage and sharp as a knife.

They misunderstand. That isn’t the instrument’s intent. To those that reach out, the moon lowers itself, slicing off the nets entangling them, the worries that’ve pinned them. In this world, the moon is merciless only in lopping off everything that’s wrong.

For in the world that is a kitchen, the moon is the kindest chef I’ve met.