March Moon

Yesterday, the moon was a silver coin on the black silk sky. Today, it is a faint spot staining the darkness. Its edges fade into the black. Today, the moon is a hole worn through the old black curtain that is the sky. Its light struggles to shine through the fabric.

Yesterday, the sky was high and empty and distant. It was a pure dome, curving smoothly. Tonight, the sky is hiding something, keeping secrets. Tonight, the sky swarms with mist. I would like the sky to whisper its secrets to me. (Dear night sky, you seem ready to ragged-edged. Worn-down, put-upon. You've lost your joy. Tell me, what's on your mind? If you need to cry, I can be here.)

But the crisp air is still. The sky isn't telling me its stories. Instead, I drink in the night through thirsty nostrils. My lungs expand till the whole world could fit inside them. I am expansive. The sky and the lonely moon and the barren trees and the weary people and all the words and songs: they could all nestle in my blood-trees, in vein-artery rivers, in my lungs. Those few breaths of cold air change me than the hours of conversation.

The moon is still uncertain, but I know the stars are coming, soon.