You know that feeling, when you wake in the middle of the night, and the full moon has snuck through the sliver of open space between the curtain and the Victorian window molding? You are awake because the light, a mirror from the sun countless miles away, is reflecting so brightly from the moon onto your face, through your eyelids, down your elevator of consciousness, stirring you from the dark depths of the bottom back up, eyes now open, gaze gently directed, curious, comforted, toward the window.
This delicious moment, just the moon and me communing. I have her all to myself. I nuzzle into my sheets and bathe in the glow.
The still and quietness of the bedroom, the house, the city, the latitude, all cloaked in a thin string of darkness except for what she offers us, for the willing, the awakened, the night shifters, the insomniacs, the nursing mothers, the grievers, the drifters.
Because in a few minutes more, the angle will be just so, now passed by that inverted isthmus of space where she greets me, greets us. Don’t leave me moon.