Every 28 days, the full moon returns.
Why is that monthly reoccurrence so magical?
Why does it appear like a stranger in the sky?
Why are there names for our full moons — the Strawberry, the Cold, the Harvest — and why are we made blue when two of them visit us in a calendar month?
The moon hangs up in the night sky. But it doesn’t “hang” at all. It’s an optical illusion that recedes in photos.
Such a cold dusty place — no light or warmth of its own. No life forms. It is not a star. Its sea is empty. The man is hard to spot and not a man at all. It’s not made of cheese.
So many songs and books and myths about the moon — but it has nothing to say about it. No word of recognition or review. So often it’s been compared to an eye in the sky, looking down upon us. But saying nothing.
Every 28 days, the full moon returns.
During that time, the moon never leaves. It crawls its away across the night sky (though we know it is fixed– we move not it) and weakly watches as we emerge from sleep. Even as it waxes and wanes, it remains.
Only for a brief night or so does the new moon hide.
That and in its conspiring with the clouds.
The moon — our closest neighbor — says nothing but tells us: it is safe to paint. To imagine my face. To dance across it. To make the leap.
Use me, this safe canvas to sketch out your idea of tomorrow.
The moon tattoos itself into the imagination, waiting for the next metaphor.
Old man at the window. Dog on the porch. Mama peering between the blinds. Slow rolling police cruiser. Hawk gliding. Knothole in the swaying oak.
The moon tells us: I’m nothing but what you make of me.
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