late to the new moon

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