Self-Portrait with Lunar Reflection

There are days that feel like over-
       ripe fruit: bruised, sitting
sadly in the bowl after having been
       handled then returned, or 
peeled after hesitation only to be 
      discarded. I want them 
to simply be the way they should— skins 
      mostly unblemished, gently rounded, 
with only a hint of acid or
      bitterness should they still
be green but torn open before 
      their time. There are days  
that feel heavy on my palms, as if 
      something hardened their sweetness  
into a pit at their core; and I must find
      the right instrument to extricate
its heart before it darkens. Night falls;
      leaves rustle. I hear insects 
begin to tune their instruments and want 
      something to break open all 
that's stony; I want to call out  
      and know it will be answered— whether 
by owl or foghorn or animals lowing in
      the fields, just as the lake's 
surface reflects the moon's face
      as it looks upon it, upon me.