A Pink Moon Full

The moon, full of what?

Human hopes that hop across an intervening void, a capsule at a time.

Sealed in, some beating hearts. Some brazen brains. Some gyroscopic bearings.

The nervous pluck, to flee the flower Earth.

A tiny moth with solar wings flits through a star’s stoic light. To an unforgiving, unforbidding glare.

The deed so delicate, you could laugh along the way. You could endear to the daring, fellow refugees.

Full of what?

Dust. Living rust. Cratered time. Creatures in their skins, scraping their own wake, invisible as a face upon the water.