Cradling Old Moons

by Eric Crawford

I sit in bed cradling old moons.
My sheets are filled with old moon dust.
They are lovely and fit well in my arms,
though I don't know when to sleep now
or when to turn them over.
I don't know if old moons crescent in bedrooms.

I can feel the nights among you old moons,
you rocks of time, still so alive and unslept.
Your round white light—dimly pulsating
as to not blind me—is wanting of a prayer.

I can smell the stars on you
and all of your midnights and howlings.
May you keep the mornings and wolves
at bay.

Eric Crawford is a current student at Kennesaw State University. He lives and writes in Cumming, Georgia.