Spring moon

There is something special about the full moon. My first born came to earth when the moon was full. Something insistent in that pull.

The pulling moon is woman, the burning sun man. That’s just the way it is. I’m drawn to the full moon’s light.

Tonight the moon brightened the night as day. Not too bright, but the seductive light pulled me from my couch.

I feel comfort in the moonlight, just enough light to see, but not enough to confront reality. All things are washed clean in that cold harsh light.

The moon shone on the bones of trees, spring has just begun to bring life out of death. The spring blossoms like funeral flowers. White and stark.

Moonlight makes everything black and white. So easy, but my head knows it’s the nature of my eyes, the dim light only registers in the rods which cannot see color, cones are necessary to see color, but they are blind to dim light. My eyes see a stark, easy, black and white reality.

Fall is the season of death, spring of hope, the promise of life. I like the spring moon, so simple, like a newborn, perfect in every way, life new without the scars of toil.

Walking back to the harsh artificial light of the porch I close my eyes to keep the feeling of simple. Reaching out I find the switch. Turning off reality I feel my way to the bottle.

Sitting in the dark I can see the silver beams of light reaching in through my bedroom window. I move my foot to the patch of silver, stopping short of touching.

To break the moment is more than I can bear, instead I sit in the dark and spy the silver light from the safety of dark.

Waiting for the fall…afraid to face the spring…lowering my head in shame…coward.

© The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2014


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