I think the moon is getting closer. The longer I stare at him, the clearer he becomes. His tentative confidence is showing as he did not invite the clouds over. He’s even keeping his favorite stars just out of reach.
Some months he really shows off, coming in really close; other months, it’s as if he doesn’t feel that his fullness is enough to impress anyone, covering up with storms, clouds and fog. My favorite moments are when I feel an apocalyptic message in his low and close, fiery and glowering presence.
I wonder if he’s been waiting for someone to notice him tonight. Maybe, during the day, he dreamt something too interesting to keep to himself. Maybe he has a joke to tell. I keep staring. He keeps inching. I begin to see the expression on his face, daring me to ask a question, silently pleased that I’ve noticed him and his almost full edges. I just keep my face turned toward the light, satisfied with the quiet and the game we are playing.
Tomorrow, he will be full. What will he will feel, and will he share his wonder with me? With the world? Will he be alone? Will he invite the stars? Tomorrow, I will be watching.