The Moon

The moon hung low in the sky last night, spherical and pure and clad in a prismatic halo (we called those “moon doggies” when I was a child.) Indeed, I could not recall Luna appearing so pristinely white. She outstripped the satin of a virginal bride’s gown; the glow of new fallen snow in deep winter would seem tainted and dim in comparison. She hung like a pregnant goddess swollen with the promise of autumn and danced coyly behind the remnants of the wispy clouds.

I stood there, ignorant of the wind’s chilly bite upon my skin. I stood steadfast and as still as a deer contemplating the safety of a meadow. I stood and took notice of the breeze rustling the leaves and the echoing click of a dog’s toenails on the wooden deck. I gazed ever upward, mesmerized by the purity of the moment as well as my own realization that I was insignificant within the vastness of our entire universe.

The moon, for her part, remained impartial. She glowed and I resigned myself to simply admiring her.