The moonlight coming through my ceiling.
Sometimes silver, sometimes white.
Promising.
Hopeful.
A reminder of beauty, and receding darkness, and tomorrows.
Yes. it was cold out there, but that light was so intriguing.
I had to see it, look at it, feel it on my skin, breathe it into my body.
So I wrapped up in a blanket, slipped on some shoes, and went to sit on my porch while the coffee brewed.
It was everything that has ever been said about moonlight. All the clichés come to life. Silver, gold, pure, clear, white, magic, mystic, omnipresent.
Wise.
Every reality, every dream
I had thought to return to my shelter when the coffee was done, but instead I found myself dragging a chair off the porch, into the yard, to settle myself, my blanket, and my hot drink out in the yard beside my fence.
I looked up and up into the purity of a winters night, with the beacon moon tangled and bouncing in the bare black branches of the stripped trees.
Black clouds gathered around the light, and crowded it, trying to overtake it.
But it would not be doused.
It serenely shone on, as the branches danced and painted themselves with the colors of the light. So much light so that when the darkness of the ominous clouds did succeed in dimming the light, the trees were able to return the light to its source, so that the darkness never blotted it out completely.
Such symbiosis!
Such love.
Such faith in the intangibles.
I don't know how long I sat out there. Or how short. Time did not exist while the moon glowed, the wind made music, and the trees danced.
I don't know.
And I do not care.
The time thatwasn't, that I was just another part of. A twig. A dust mote. A breath of wind.
A breath of life.
Yes, the magic of moonlight, cliched as it is, was tall and strong and all inclusive that night.
And I was humbled and exalted to be a part of it.
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