“Slow Living,” and “Blessed is the Moon”

Tonight, I choose to place my singular attention

on the moon, the orb of dust and rock

and its ghostly reflection of the burning star,

and breathe in the crickets and the owls.

And it is in the lightless chill that I wonder—

what does it mean to arrive, to find

comfort in a destination reached.

Yet, I am certain such a place is never found,

not when you live slowly, not when you know

everything changes, not when it’s clear

that in the end it all is given away.

It’s an imperfect practice, this work of

embracing the senses, of turning from chaos,

and walking the path of everyday miracles.

We blame you for broken

hearts and the darkness of

werewolves, for the light

of your fullness that

keeps us awake, that

rattles our spirit when

you shine behind November’s

naked silhouetted trees.

But we know in the end

you are so very good, good for love,

good for wishing, for the ocean tides.

You’ve guided our adventures,

and shaped our calendar days,

and made us hold our breath

on a harvest night, or when you

cross paths with the Sun

and the Earth.

Forgive us, Moon,

for we are only

held in wonder.