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She doesn’t carry the kit bag of old wounds and grudges.  Does not tend the catalogue of resentments: Meteorites that pit and pock her skin.  Magnetic pull that holds her, bound and obeisant, to her watery twin.  Heavy footfalls of the irreverent who descend upon her, bearing flags.

She does not long to emit her own light.  She’s content to let the sun do all the burning.  Her nearest star.  Happy to absorb its light.  Most of which she keeps for herself, reflects back just a little.  Just enough to capture our attention.

The tumult of her youth subsided now, and the moonquakes that once rippled her core, reshaped and disrupted her crust.  Still, twice daily she pulls earth’s ocean tides toward her, pushes them away, gentle reminder of the force she wields still.

She forgives all I cannot.

She grants absolution to suicide bombers.  Offers solace to diggers of mass graves.  She continues to shine her light on the boy who shot up his high school.  On those who’ve made the oceans so noisy that whales—some of her favorite beings—can no longer hear the signals that guide them.

She intends to orbit this planet despite the melting of its polar ice caps.  Despite the everyday terrorism of the dining table, the bedroom.  Malfeasance in the board room.  Despite starving babies, flies studding their eyes.

She takes pity on the arms merchants.  Pardons those who launch missiles from behind the pulpit.  Those who employ children for 17 cents a day.

The moon shows us her silvery profile, but studies our spinning world in full aspect.  Its beauty and terror.    She sees, exonerates.

Relents.  Has mercy.  Gives respite.

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