Last night, as I rolled over to go to sleep, I glimpsed the moon, in burnt ember splendour, a slice of citrus glowing over the house.
This morning, she is cool again, waiting to bid me good day as the sun rises to trade horizons with her. She is back to her white and grey dappled self against the blue sky of day. She fades as my coffee steams in the crisp air and the dog snuffles through the glass, oblivious.
The sentry heads on to her next post, to light the night on the other half of the world, twisting as she goes. I don't know how she prepares herself for the atrocities she sees in her travels. I ask her to light the paths of communities I've just returned from, to peek in the windows of the children I love and somehow whisper, "We are together" as my mid summer moon becomes their mid winter light.
A harvest moon transforms to light the ski slopes and the desert plains alike in the southern hemisphere.
If only she could write a love story in the sky, a message to those who see her from the frightening shadows of a crowded street market, closed to legitimate vendors but open for trading in the fresh faced youngsters huddled there.
If only she could point directly on those who need light and that that glow would afford them a force field of protection from those who hide in darkness, seeking to harm the vulnerable.
If only she could bring comfort to those who are bereaved and vulnerable, grieving and lost - to speak over them with love and reassurance that they are seen and not alone.
But all she can do, is illuminate the world in a single night, lighting what corners she can, at the mercy of clouds and shadows and darkness below. And pull the tides back and forth, beating the shorelines around the world. And keep gravity in check. As if that were enough.
~written in August 2014 upon return from Zambia.