Chased by the Moon

From one end
of grandpa's backyard
all the way
to the other,
the moon
seemed always
just overhead.
With my five-year-old
lack of understanding
of distance
and proportion,
I asked grandpa
why the moon
was following me.  
Without looking up
from his raking
of autumn leaves,
he smiled
and replied
"It likes you."  

My cynicism
was already sufficient
to suspect
the old man
was pulling my leg,
giving me one
of those answers
adults provide
to little-kid-questions
when they don't
want to bother
explaining the
real answer,
or don't know
the real answer,
or one of
those answers
adults give
because you're just
a little kid
and they can
get away with
an answer no
adult would
stand for.

A few years
later in elementary
school science,
my discovery
of science's  
"real answer"
seemed to justify
my cynicism.
  
But in recent days
I have wondered
if my cynicism
was more infantile
than my original question,
if grandpa's response
contained more wisdom
than I guessed,
maybe more than
he himself
knew?  

For I have
experienced too
much to dismiss
grandpa's unscientific
theory: moments
of embrace by
gentle, soft,
yet radiant
affection by
Sister Moon;  
my heart
stilled with awe
by appearance
of her face
above the horizon;
my soul has felt
acknowledging
acceptance of
moonlight that
follows wherever
I go.

So thanks, grandpa.
I like you too.