A morning’s thought, this April day

It’s not the same, this moon I see hovering in the tips of trees

I saw it first at 4a.m. 

Higher, smaller

And now, at six, it’s swollen self is not the same. 

And yet, it is.

My children, three

Are not the same in middle-age as

When I knew them small.

Yet they are.

The same.

But, no.

It’s always perspective, isn’t it?