With the rise of the full moon and her pending eclipse, I’m circling in a thick emotional soup. Sounds are distorted. Regular seems inordinately weary. I crave the solace of nothingness. I sleep in tiny patches and my dreams are distorted and distant.
My being is draped on the curvature of the moon.
I am the silhouette of a leaf or the hum of dryer’s drone. I have no feet for they are kindly blending with the knotty edges of the floorboards. Turning a page, I get stuck midway, for nap-a-tude is the elixir poured. Meals seem to create in a patchwork quilt of comfort. The kids and I float. I found the creamer in the pantry and my mug in the frig next to a sticky note: remember, you are loved.
For now, I’ll walk hand-in-hand with the crimson fruits of autumn and wear a shawl of gossamer clouds. I’ll be with the spirit of quiet and listen to her safe said softness.
Silence is never fully silent; it paints a pointillistic pattern of glyphs and answers will soon surface.