The night we made the moon disappear, O Best Beloved,
morning gently caressed us awake, like a freshwater lake lapping
in humble supplication at the corroded legs of a crooked dock
or a mossy stone wall separating water from land (but just barely).
On the afternoon of the night we made the moon disappear, we walked
down to the water and into a cave where the waves echoed
like thunder that’s too close (but we weren’t afraid).
When we got home, we dressed like we were at the beach and laid
on the carpet in patches of sunlight like happy, overfed cats or vacationers
sunbathing for proof.
The evening of the night we made the moon disappear there was music
and laughter (there’s always music and laughter).
Food was ritualistically prepared and carefully,
The night we made the moon disappear we were deep
in ceremony. It would have been difficult to say where each of us began
and ended, separated only by the boundaries
of our physical forms (but just barely).
(Why are we still so shocked by our ability to make magic, Best Beloved?
We’ve only been doing it for the past 35 years,
The night we made the moon disappear it hung
like a prized painting above a mantelpiece,
something of unknown origin or value passed down for generations
simply because it had been so dear to a loved one once.
The night we made the moon disappear, it was lit like the room:
just barely; like a half-collapsed jack-o-lantern grinning
defiantly against a rainy autumn sky.
It flickered for a while, as if a candle responding to the breath
of our whispers. As if to say “Yes, you’re on to something, keep going.”
And we heard and we did keep going,
until we extinguished the flame from the sky and rekindled it
in the hearth of our awareness.
That is where it lives now, the moon magic:
in us and between us, and all around us, Best Beloved.
It is the secret of all secrets and the seed of all things.
It is love.
And it hangs above the mantelpieces of our fiery hearts,
inextinguishable and perfectly full