Parkinsons Blue Moon -- or eclipsed
She was like the sun,
bursting with life,
giving warmth, homemade feasts, love,
busy as Apollo rushing across
the sky with carpools
Now she's a weak reflection
of her self,
like the moon in midnight blue sky,
her light dimming, pale lemon and milk.
On occasional nights she brightens,
like a Japanese lantern,
other nights she disappears
into the narrow white crescent
which rims the stony orb or
she's hidden in layers of clouds,
like under sheets in a sick bed.
The cloud on her life,
like the moon pulling high tide,
has sucked away a tiny dab of black
caviar cells in the brain, causing
tears to leak from once starry
eyes as her body petrifies.