No Moon She searches up through the night sky, cries, "no moon, no moon." Lips quivering, she argues with its absence, makes a tiny fist, howls the howl of new found abandon, as I catch my breath, and hold fast to nothing. How to say "sometimes there is no moon and life's not fair." Instead I mention the sun, how its daytime presence makes up for the moon gone, but a toddler is unconsoled by tomorrow. The moon is not there. And even we must call it new. Her eyes find another light, "baby moon, mommy, baby moon," and all is right. Baby, how to tell you it's more substantial than that. Soon she will feel its tiny gravity, a child's tug as she gazes past the moon to other galaxies. Tonight I am spared an empty explanation by a far off planet, but know on a cloudy night soon, she will stomp off betrayed and no one can comfort her in that truth.