Stepping onto the evening patio, I spied the newly born cresent moon hanging over Carolina pines. Had we been at an elevation for palmettos, this would have made a great state flag. In any event, it shows clear and tenderly in a summer sky drained after the solstice’s peak. How soon the darkness returns. How hard it seems to wait for the sun’s return.
So much is made over full moons. Cayotes and vampires love them. Cher could build a comeback on one. They are certainly dramatic, but I love a cresent just as much. A sliver of moon either holds the promise of the month yet to come or the last, sweet memories of a month passed. The little fingernail grip on the passage of time with more left unsaid than the bold expression of the moon at full phase.
Sometimes, the less said the better. My words can often do no service other than to screw something up. The poetry lies in what is felt but not seen. There is more to the moon than is presented in the cresent, and this we can sense although it is hidden from view.