descends beneath a full moon that lights the fog in the valley, turning it into a magic place, a world of fantastic images, shadows; sweet-smelling and ripe with blooms of blackberry brambles.
A beautiful thing to be part of such wonder.
Such intricate loveliness.
How gloriously beautiful, ethereal, imperial, mysterious and full of magic is the full moon.
As is any phase of the Lunar cycle, excepting the disappointing invisibility of the New Moon.
She, for I think of her as she, makes the dark, midnight hours resemble a muted dawn.
Shadows and silhouettes dancing amidst the cool wind and shifting clouds.
Such wonder in the shattered darkness that enthusiastically precedes a new day.
I talk to the moon, I stand in her light and find a piece of myself and, ironically, a peace in myself.
A moment of belonging to the night, the sky, the universe.
She, like her creator, loves me though I am flawed.
How, you ask can I speak of magic alongside creation without sounding like a hypocrite?
Because the magic, joy, humility, blatant brilliance and magesty of creation takes my breath away. That isn’t hypocritical, it’s simple fact.
Yes, I love the moon.
This time next month, the fireflies will frolic and dance beneath her easy light.
I can scarcely wait for them.
Judge me if you must, but it won’t stop the fireflies nor the words the moon, if you listen, has to say.
I do love the moon.