Moon Over Gaza

I am lonely
for my friends.
They liked me,
trusted my coming.
I think they looked up at me
more than other people do.

I who have been staring down so long
see no reason for the sorrows humans make.
I dislike the scuffle and dust of bombs blasting
very much. It blocks my view.

A landscape of sorrow and grieving
feels different afterwards. 
Different sheen from a simple desert,
children who say my name
like a prayer.  

Sometimes I am bigger than
a golden plate,
a giant coin
and everyone gasps. 

Maybe it is wrong
that I am so calm.


From The Tiny Journalist (BOA Editions, Ltd. 2019) by Naomi Shihab Nye. Copyright © 2019 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Used with the permission of the poet.