Dear Papi,
Tonight there is a harvest moon in the sky. It is big and round and golden orange, like a picture. The wind is cool, and swirls around my ankles as I sit in the garden, smelling the sweet scent of honeysuckle, and lemon verbena, spearment and basil. It is the end of summer, which means the beginning of fall.
Every harvest moon I think of you. I can remember many different journeys, looking out the window and thinking of something you said or did or having the feeling that something good was going to happen. As if we were going to run off. Oftentimes you moved right through me and I could feel you, as if you were part of my skin, and throat, and chest. If I took a breath, you would breathe with me. All this in the car driving, looking at the harvest moon.
This is true a true story. It happens like this, the harvest moon. Where it attaches people to people. As if their fingertips are sewn together, or their shadows are connected. You don't even have to know each other. You just have to be open to the surprise.
Tonight from my bedroom I can see the moon illuminated through a large spiderweb on my porch. A big spotted spider has been building it, day by day by day. And I've been watching this spider spitting it's thread out and swinging from point to point, creating a lovely web to catch it's prey in.
Moon. Spoon. Croon.
Lisa
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Here in Wales, it was just about the finest harvest moon I can remember in a long time. Somehow reflecting its light across the woods and fields on the edge of the village. And that first sharp hint of autumn in the air. It may have been the next morning, certainly around then, that I saw the first dusting of frost on the grass in the morning.
And then, when the moon had gone that lovely old word, "starshine".
A good night on which to remember loved ones.
Post a Comment