Moon Swan

I love the moon
like a secret garden loves the rain —
softly, all at once,
without asking why.

I love the way she scatters her bones
across the river,
a silver reflection trembling
but never breaking.
I kneel by the bank and watch her
float like a swan —
white feathers on a black lake,
her silence more honest than any prayer
I ever whispered to the dark.

Tonight she wears her thinnest gown —
a frail crescent, a butterfly’s wing,
spun from the hush between my thoughts.
Tomorrow she will be round and ripe,
a soft lantern to hang my dreams upon,
proof that small things grow
into gentle giants if you let them.

She drifts over rooftops,
slips into the veins of the river,
wraps my tired shoulders
in the hush of her light.
She is calm, she is certain,
she is every word I forget
when daylight hurts too much to speak.

In her silver I see every version of myself —
waxing, waning, forgiving.
A thousand fragile selves blooming
and shrinking and blooming again.

She was made for great things —
to steer tides, to cradle wolves’ howls,
to hush wild hearts that ache
for something bigger than skin.

I close my eyes and feel her —
white swan, soft lantern,
tender witness to my small life.
And in her glow I remember:
I, too, was born to rise and fall
and rise again.

by Onnaya

🌙✨🦢