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A Moon Bath…

It is five in the morning, I sit perched upon my bed, a writer’s roost to bask in the moon’s glow. I breathe quietly into the layered silence that emanates, filling the space with expansive questioning. My moon effulgence is sweet, yet, I know it is fleeting. Already sounds of traffic encroach upon the scene, foreboding the ticking time bomb we title reality.

I allow my gaze to partake of the sparkling moon dust that skitters across the hushed pond. All lights, except for the dimmed computer screen are extinguished. Maybe I can somehow prolong the radiance, delay the initiation of the emerging sun. Can I hold my breath, pull the chord that entangles the moon, beseech it to stay perched for my eye to see and my heart to feel?

I suppose she may wish to rest, to rejuvenate for her next rising. Taking her turn in the celestial dance, being careful to not overstay her welcome. I am charmed by her mysterious illumination, never does she fear the dark, instead she welcomes it like a cloak of glad tiding.

She accepts that often she is unnoticed, a mere sliver in the sky, bashful in her monthly cycle. Once upon a time we honored her, knowing that her waltz in the galaxy was as important as the suns tango and the rains boogie, all essential in the abundance promenade.

I sit now enveloped in the complete emptiness of her departure. Silently she slipped away, no bravado goodbye, just a quiet last wink to those who glanced her way. I hold that gesture as I rise like the sun into the manmade chaos. It’s my glowing reminder in the anarchy of human civilization that all is impermanent, fleeting, a mere glint in infinite darkness.

A moon bath caressed me into this day. I lathered and washed infusing my skin with her radiant energy. Armoring myself against the onslaught of human preoccupation, the ignorant forgetfulness that we are an intrinsic part of the whole.

Thank you moon glow, your touch has lifted me. I shall not forsake your gift, nor ignore your virtues.

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Ode to the Blossom…

Outside my bedroom stands a glorious cherry tree. I call it the cotton ball tree, for in the Spring it becomes a round white fluff ball balancing on a dark gray leg. When viewed from the other side of the pond, it receives grand compliments like the belle of the ball, dressed in regal finery.

She is the first to don her green as the winter wanes, preparing and fueling herself to burst forth with voluptuous magnificence. Watching the tightly wrapped buds as they expand in preparation to expose themselves, beckons one to be patient. Then it happens, the soft white nearly translucent petal leans back, inviting the others to join her, telling them it is safe to open up.

It is a grand party, they dance and wave on the currents of seasonal change. Quietly role modeling for the nearby trees that the time is now, a merry invitation to play.

I am awed by their extreme courage and strength, such delicate baby soft petals do not give way to the last ambushes of winters gusts. They stay perched in their efflorescence perfection. I am mesmerized by their unabashed elegance and enraptured by their swirling soft perfume.

The time of fading looms. They cling to the final glory days. Intense gales with blurring rain try to undress the dignified queen of trees. The fair ivory petals do not forsake her, they stay, grasping to the last days of their eminence.

A blanket of white bares the truth, fading with quiet acquiescence they fall. Knowing that their time in the sun has come to an end. They exalted the rising of Spring, tempting others to brave the change, now with extreme fortitude, they accept death.

Springs blanket of white shall last merely a moment in time, a mirror of life’s fleeting impermanence…

I sit in admiration of their unpretentious valor, for they did not try to burst on the scene before they were welcomed and they do not linger longer than they were invited. There is a resplendent acceptance that life cycles, birth, life, death.., birth, life, death….

As the sun worships their last moments in the cradle of leaves, I too stand in adoration of their benevolent presence and passing. Our time shall come again on the ebb and flow of seasons. I thank you humbly dear blossom for the reminder that everything has its season, blooming in perfection with the raw truth of impermanence and fragility in the presence of time.