The Moon Shrinks

as does my attention upon her.

She is not to be seen

through the haze that even the sun

has trouble piercing, the smoke

that even as it thins 

fails to disperse.

But I know that behind the veil

she’s a crescent,

a sickle, a scimitar, a curl of light;

outline of a pregnant belly, holding 

darkness within, the shape

of the unknown.

Oh void, oh mystery, oh edge

of nothing-something,

I am starting to forget you —

starting not to want

to enter the dark to look for you.

It’s Spring, Ostara: I dance in the sun!

Journalling my relationship with the moon: 23