They call it a cold place,
an emptiness,
shadow,
cracked mirror hanging
in the galaxy’s empty room.
Don’t listen to them.
Like every distant thing,
there’s so much more to it
than what we think we know.
Not all cold things are lifeless,
dear reader.
Not all that listens is silent.
The truth is the moon
is alive with glisten,
it is time’s open mouth.
It hums with story,
longing to answer
what we’ve always longed
to ask the night:
How endless is the sky?
What breath makes the clouds
drift like lace across the water?
How do we enter the dark
and hold enough light
to find our way back out?
