I have grown to love the moon and I feel so foolish for even saying it. But I have to say it – because it’s true. Not saying it would not change the way each night has felt since I first recognized it.
I thought I was special, I’ll admit that next. I thought I was the first to smile and feel whole in the presence of another never full. I thought, again foolishly, that if I looked at her and smiled at her and told her of her beauty, she would show it more often. I felt brave and heroic for being as supportive in her waxes as I was in her wanes. And truthfully, for the first few cycles, I thought it every bit enough.
Until I was the one in wane. You may already know it, but to spend the night with the moon is the most wonderful thing. To see yourself in her light, in the focus of her face, and to eventually drift off to sleep in the comfort of her presence… it is to be luckier than most.
But each morning, she is gone before my eyes can open. I know where she is and it doesn’t matter because it is a place far away and not one she lets me see. And at my best, at my fullest, this is all okay. It’s a loss worth facing for all that came before. In the presence of a pain thoroughly guaranteed, one which I acccepted for a chance at a fleeting joy preceding, I feel proud. Truly. Both the good and bad are progress to me. To face a pain for the sake of a temporary joy is to be brave in a way I have long not been able.
I thank her for a beauty worth chasing. I thank her for a light that glows in a color my eyes finally recognize. It shines bright in heavy contrast to the dark sky that my searching eyes have long grown tired of. Without her fleeting beauty, I would not be sitting here, inspired and terrified, and finally feeling every bit of both.
She is beautiful. She will be gone soon. She will always be out of reach. This is who she is. Tomorrow, I may silently lament her nature, but it will only be in acknoweledgement of my willful commitment to something I know cannot return my awe.
It is not the moon’s fault that the sun does not bother to light her full each and every night. And it is not my fault for falling victim to her vibrant aura on the nights the sun obliges. It is too lovely. She is too lovely. I’d wish to see her more but that would be wishing her different. She would never and should never change, let alone on another’s wish. It’s that headstrong face that is so integral to her beauty, after all.
Her soft light finds an eye in seconds rather brief.
And dares that eye to count to sixty, then by minutes in belief.
And when the minutes become mine, become hours,
I enjoy a high that even morning cannot sour.
You see,
I worry that the sky
above the place I’ll move quite soon
will never hold a beauty like
the stubborn
cotton
moon.