My Meetings with the Moon:

Once every synodic month, the moon becomes wholly embodied and opens her ears to me. We converse without spoken words, of course. We go on and on about what has transpired since we spoke last. Drawing life force to its crest at its peaking shine, the moon and I have much to get off of our chests. I speak of blockages that keep me from beaming as wholly as I can into the world. I tell of how winter, in its whipping slashes of chill, makes me feel like a piece of coal, that every night in the compression of my routine, I come closer and closer to becoming a diamond. In my meetings with the with the moon, graphite in metal sheaths become the trumpet to play. Each note transformed from a breath, each valve forming a song of my chest, drawing from a well of release backed by faith in the universe, uncertain of their timing however entirely trusting I find myself in the process, each letter scrawled as hastily as the last with the certainty that it’s all laid out for me, and all I have to do is harness my energy.