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.