I’ve heard it said the moon’s a melancholy soul – up there all alone, with no light of its own and only sometimes whole. But I spend a lot of time with the moon, waiting somewhere between asleep and awake while the world turns from night to day and the sky changes with the seasons. And I say this: It’s something truly special (and not for all of us) to keep close the company of the stars, to see through another’s radiance and shine a path bright and clear in the darkness.
I am only a flash in the corner of your eye, nothing but a shadow, or a trick of the light on the stair, there and gone. You can try to catch me in a photo, or to capture the sound of my voice. Many have, and most leave disappointed. Are you scared? You should be, you know. I’m not for everyone.
Strike a match against the October sky and watch it burn – blood orange and blue hot with the fire of elders, of ages. It rages and then smolders. And in its embers lay the sands that turn the year from day to night, and soothe the world to sleep.
September is the month of gold – the leaves, the light, the hours. And there’s nothing quite like a September night, when the magic of the harvest moon makes lovers and poets of both the young and the old.
I always feel a little melancholy seeing September come to an end. And yes, I know we’re not quite there yet. I’m thoroughly enjoying the slant of the light, the slightly cooler temperatures, the way the leaves have just started to turn… I love it all. And I just had to share this moment.
This is the sunset today, on the (small) mountain behind my house. I can’t get enough of it. And I know that soon enough, it will be dark at this time of day. But with the winter comes the stars, so I’m not complaining. I always have loved winter best. But for now, I’m soaking up this special September magic.
Where does the time go? Hither and fro. Over and yonder and far and away, time is a child, and the child loves to play. September closes while October waits, and don’t we all have plans to make? So what comes next? No one can say. It belongs to us to only bide the hours and count the days.
Try to remember them: The days of smoke, of rain, of golden leaves and woodfire embers and orange twilights. The growing nights, ignited by the tawny harvest moon, as full and round with possibilities as the coming season. These are the September kind. The hours and minutes and memories, the time and the turning, the living and dying that belong to us, when we feel older and younger at once. We are all the children of the fall.
Long lost, then found. And found again. You and I – we keep coming back to each other, my old forgettable friend.
*I am currently in the middle of a weeks-long, house-wide decluttering spree, having decided I can no longer stand the state of my closets, drawers, cabinets, and other storage spaces. I don’t have regrets. BUT, this was a much better idea before I got started.*
Half of my heart is here with me, the other half’s in the hills. I’m not ashamed of where I’m from. I carry them in me – my mountains, my people, those places and faces and powerful memories. See, you can take the girl out, but she’ll come home whenever that strong heart wills.