Worst of All the Waning

Worst of all the waning

of the moon to fading ember,

a smolder in the sky

before it blinks omniscient eye.

The interval between

winter and spring—

the drying, crumbling leaves

before the fall

and descent to earthen floor.

Worst of all the wilting

of the petals past their prime,

downturned faces to weep

at the nectar of their youth.

It’s the time passing,

hours spent in slumber—

years etched into tree rings.

The way the moon can

wax and wane, exhale and inhale

like our breath into the night.

Chantelle Flores (she/her) studies English and art history at the University of Maine, where she works as a Writing Center consultant. She has been published in We Gen Z (The Telling Room) and Barzakh. She enjoys rock music, the visual arts, and spending time with friends and family.