Like the moon, we pull through phases
in the midst of our own dark atmosphere.
Waxing towards a new creation,
long nights synchronizing into the fluidity of wholeness
if only for a moment in time before falling into waning,
pieces of ourselves detaching and falling across the sky.
There is a moment of perfection, a complete chrysalis,
beautiful and blinding
powerful enough to drag the seas and every molecule of water upward.
The turning tides our blood within,
pooling and receding
brimming with the magnetism of potentiality.
The moon, like us, like our hearts,
is pocked and blemished, unprotected and standing alone
distant, entombed, a book of history.