It comes at the uncertain spin of the spell, the benediction by owl or crow, bright atop the tattered crowns of fall. It comes with the weight of the season, tinsel and turkeys and the faith to follow stars. The crisp air turns without a word, at once stilled and startled, the ancient aspect always revealed on sight. The moon treads the boards, climbing up the scaffolding of tree and roof and power line, ignoring skeptic and worshipper alike. Breathless and bared with the wax on bright, the albedo all the onus the motion requires. The moon as it moves, the night as it falls.
There is the point in a dream where the dreaming comes up, where someone shifts skins or the place or action speaks to the husk in such away that the distinction between awake and asleep becomes moot. The flesh and the mystery part ways for an instant and the dream slips out for a bite or a beat. The moon is the traveler of that path, the mundane and the magic mingling in the depths of the machine, the push of the dreaming through skin and bone. The sky, the moon, your eyes alone. The gates open between the heavens and the heart. Blood beating this becoming goddess through the dirt and fever of your knotted flesh.
The moon wanders west. Soon into the tangle of the pines to shine and loom. Soon into the slender ingress of my open window to gossip and to beckon. I hone my alone against the night sky and the scrabble of rat and root. Watch the firmament, watch your step, there is nothing that the night won’t take. I’ve given up on not giving up, so the enchantment hits hard. The moon plants its hints, the moon plays its hand. All my want and lack, the lonely bones, the dreamy seeming call of the impossible and the unlikely. I watch the moon as it moves, envious and aching from the promises it breaks. Between the words and the world we witness, the magic an aspect of this terrible beauty. The drag of this gravid moon upon all this unloved dross.