Moon

More Fiction

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The world is a subtle palette of blues and greys.  The air is soft, and the breath of Spring is in it, subtle, infectious, delightful.  The moon is rising, perfect and pale, a disc of bone slowly manifesting to dominate the horizon. It is impossible to resist that ancient lunar pull, and I can feel it tingling through my blood like a surge of adrenaline.   It is a night too perfect to stay inside, a night too perfect to spend in front of the endless reruns or sacrificed to other distractions.

If I step out the side door, I almost think I’ll see you crouched there, silvered by the surreal light, made into something not quite of this earth, if ever you can be said to be.  You’d be in new-growing tender grass, idly plucking at the clover with your fingertips, waiting there for me to come out as if it had been a foregone conclusion, an inevitable thing that I would.  And if I came to you there, felt the wetness of night’s dew clinging to my feet and ankles, slipped my hand into yours, I wonder what change would come, what magic would begin.  

Because of course it is a night for magic.  It is a night for transformation.  Here while the stars spin above us, while the moon covers everything in a cloak of wonder, suddenly all things are possible.  I might unfurl great black raven’s wings and fly away from everything that troubles me as I so often long to do, might soar to touch the face of the white sphere above us.  Wisdom might be given to me.  I might interpret the song of the wind in the leaves.  

You’d look into my eyes, smile a little at my whimsy without ever a word having been spoken between us, touch my cheek gently.  And that would be the truest magic of all, that you could know me, understand that a night of such natural wonder fills my soul to the fullest measure, fills my imagination with impossible things, and love me anyway.