Sometimes I ask the moon for guidance.
I stand at the window, my breath fogging up the glass,
and I reach my hands up.
The moon is alive in the way of mountains and rivers,
through the long-lived presence of time,
and the humming of old things.
The clean blue moonlight pours through the city air, in a steady stream, as soft as water.
I feel it spill over my skin, through the too-pale crevasses on my palm, through the rivulets of my fingerprints, over the paper-cut on my index finger.
The moon and I are kindred,
nocturnal and unknowable.
I ask the moon what I should do,
what should I do, moon,
and she speaks to me the way a creek rolls across pebbles.
I cannot understand, but I feel something settle within me.
I feel that I am long-lived for a moment.
Wind, or a boulder,
or the bend in the river where the willows hang low.
I wash clean in the moonlight,
ancient, nocturnal, and unknowable,