I have been feeling in a bit of a melancholy mood--I've spent too much time on clunky websites trying to get my unemployment benefits, and I've been feeling sad that this beautiful weather will soon shift to summer heat. I've been feeling bad about losing my job, even though it wasn't my fault. And I'm sure I have some stress as seminary classes start to zoom towards the end, which contributes to my melancholy.
Tuesday morning, the moon startled me on my morning walk. It was just before dawn, and the moon as it was rising looked huge in the very dark sky. It's at the end of a waning phase, so it looked hollowed out. As I walked, I came up with some lines for a poem, and I repeated them throughout my walk, so that I could remember.
Wednesday morning, I wanted to see if I could see the moon again, but because it's a day later, moonrise was later, 6:28 a.m. So I headed to South Lake, where I thought I would have a better view of the moon as it rose. South Lake looks out towards the part of the beach with fewer highrises.
I got there at 6:34, which I thought gave me a good chance of seeing it, but at first I didn't see anything. I walked slowly around the lake, and just when I was about to give up, I saw it, a narrow sliver of a moon in a red-orange sky, just before sunrise. It looked much more apocalyptic than it did when it was in a darker sky.
I stood and stared for a moment. If I hadn't been paying attention, I likely wouldn't have noticed the moon--it was just too close to sunrise and too cloudy. I walked to North Lake where I could still see the moon, but it was barely visible as the sky had gotten much lighter.
I have all but ceased sending out poems just now, so let me post the poem that I wrote after my moonwalk mornings. Is it done? My younger poet self would have put in a lot of references to social justice issues. My younger poet self would have made every connection glaringly obvious.
I may go back and tinker, but I am aware that poems about the moon risk all sorts of sins--the moon is such a symbol of so many things. Today it is enough to post the poem here:
The moon hangs low before dawn,
discarded bauble, hollowed out gourd
of its former glory,
holding the outline of what is to come.
Palm branches rustle,
a distant cough,