When, at the end of a complicated season
of argument and negotiation
I check, and find that the moon is dark.
And will soon be new,
I consider the things undone
That will not now be done
And the things unexplained
Which will leave large pools of dissatisfaction
And I breathe out, out, emptying the air
From my lungs, and the worries
From my head; letting it all go.
For if my friends wish me to explain
or to do, or to tell, or to empathise,
And they are really my friends
they will let me know
Without recrimination, without coercion,
With candour and optimism.
So I can sleep while the moon slips past the sun
And renews itself, and me.