The moon is one of those things in life that is always aesthetically pleasing. Like flowers, it cannot go wrong when it comes to beauty. It is simple, silver and varying degrees of crescent or roundness. It never has a displeasing shape or shine. We are built to look up at it in wonder, as we cannot do with its sister the sun. I should think if you looked up things that have had most poems and songs written about them, that the moon would be pretty high on the list, and for good reason. Sat in its blue hammock here with a tinge of pink on the horizon, it is a recipe for a perfect sky.
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
This faraway sea, tranquilly free from water, sits in concave solitude. Without waves and breakers it may do as it pleases, gazing out at the green and the good. Milky marble, Moody’s eye, always revolving in its dark socket and piercing the gloom, never fully silver in truth. Footprints from giant steps still ingrained in unforgiving dust that no breeze sees fit to stir. All breath long gone and flags unfluttering, undecayed. Perhaps it is this unchanged beauty pulling at our tides that makes us long for mooned monotony and perfect glowing skin, ignorant as we are that close to, our spectral sister still suffers the acne of ancient craters and pits, her beauty unmarred by her blemishes, scarred satellite silently singing to the wolves.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from Pixabay