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.