First Footprint

Dear Moon,

You must have felt it first,

the tremor of footsteps that were not your own.

After all the centuries of staring down at oceans,

of pulling tides like strings on a harp,

suddenly, we reached up and touched you.

Tell me, how did it feel, that first boot print

pressed into your ancient dust?

Did it sting, like memory,

or did it feel like a long-awaited hand

finally brushing yours across the dark?

We watched from a hundred million living rooms,

hearts flickering like static,

Earth holding its breath,

while Armstrong spoke

small words that shifted history.

You, silver and still,

became the mirror of our becoming.

Did you laugh at our trembling voices,

our fragile flags, our need to leave a mark,

to say we were here in your light?

Or did you, in your way,

forgive our wonder,

the way a mother forgives a child

for climbing too high to reach her face?

I imagine you kept that footprint safe,

the way one keeps a letter,

creased, lunar, and full of meaning,

just to remind yourself

that even silence can be answered.

Yours always,

from the blue world below.