New Moon

The moon has seen all that we hide—

hearts held close and hopes denied.

It rose above the daisy's bloom,

and watched love thrive, then fall to gloom.

It watched lips meet in quiet grace,

then part like strangers in new space.

It lit the backs of those who lied,

and barefoot children who just cried.

Not from joy or summer's song,

but fear that chased their steps too long.

The daisies swayed but never told,

while moonlight bathed the young and old.

Waxing Crescent

It saw Jonah, with trembling hand,

kneel down upon the flowered land.

A ring, a hope, a breath held tight—

and Mira lost beneath the night.

He stuttered out, "Will you be mine?"

The moon held still. The stars aligned.

But silence won. She turned her face—

they never spoke again of place.

First Quarter

It watched them later, years ahead,

with other hands, in other beds.

They smiled like strangers often do,

as if what bloomed was never true.

Waxing Gibbous

It saw a soldier—dark with grime—

rest on his rifle one last time.

A daisy plucked, a final smoke,

a lullaby he barely spoke.

He placed a photo in the clay—

the moon still knows her face today.

Full Moon

It watched two girls in tangled hair,

exchange a kiss, then gasp for air.

Their laughter shook, their fingers trembled,

beneath a sky too wide to handle.

They whispered, "Will they understand?"

The moon reached down and held their hands.

Waning Gibbous

A woman fled in wedding white,

barefoot fleeing through the night.

She left her vows beneath the weeds,

where daisies tangled round her knees.

The bruises bloomed across her skin,

but not a single soul looked in.

Last Quarter

It saw the bombs. The marching feet.

The boys too young. The quick retreat.

It saw the meadow catch in flame,

the petals scorched, the sky to blame.

And then the quiet. Just the wind.

A child asleep. The bitter end.

Waning Crescent

And still, the daisies found their rise—

as if the earth had no disguise.

Forgiveness bloomed where blood had dried,

a quiet grace that never died.

The moon has seen all we have done—

our battles lost, our small loves won.

And still it rises, calm and slow,

above the fields where daisies grow.

Above the grief, above the fight,

it shines for those who need its light.

For those who kissed,

for those who ran,

for all who broke

but still began.