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
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