it’s hard to touch my wonder
the new moon feels the same as the old
the sweet sticky illusion of something changing other than the angle of orbit
we always come back here
we always cast the shadow
always with the awkward laughter that shirks accountability
these phases have an order
everything divine is made so by its order
sometimes the repetition alone makes me feel trapped in a cyclical timeline too small for my imagination
i want new reverences
new awe
new celestial bodies to imply new things about my purpose and this art and our calling
new ways to move seas
new ways to wield sunbeams
something grander than reflection
and what we have is
an always changing moon that never changes
appearing so bright at a distance
pockmarked and dull up close
nothing light about it
detritus rock, how long have i worshipped you
and worshipped us
so mortal, so distracted
sometimes i struggle to breathe
under the weight of a parallel world
where we are immersed in gratitude for this gorgeous home and each miraculous creation upon it
where we are fascinated by life
where we feel pulled by the earth’s cycles instead of this current dance of greed and defense, terror and escape, isolation and rage
i touch my wonder
thread thru with the particular depression of living each crisis we foretold, concurrently
it feels flimsy, a bauble when i need a wall
i hold it up to the midnight sky
and see your dark face, patient
my wonder, however small, is a prism
through it i remember: you saw my ghosts when i couldn’t, you watched him step out of his body, you saw her last brief breath
you watch the disappearing ice caps and diminishing forest canopy, the swirl of storm clouds, the great shadow of smoke from our endless fires
you keep rocking the burning ocean into low tide
you teach us that the cycle is the way, even when nothing else is promised
that beauty is a function of relationship, even when what’s left is grief
i know i am late
and its a complex time for praise
and i move jagged as any other broken heart
still, i run to apologize
for forgetting there is an art
to bringing light into the darkness
bringing comfort to collapse
and rhythm to each precipice of change