Christmas Moon

In the velvet darkness, a fat and rounded orb with one side flattened hangs serenely in the quiet night.  It is, at one quarter short of full, a gibbous moon, and lovely.  

If the moon could call out, I wonder, what would I hear?  One long ringing bell note?  Or would it be hoarse and dry, a hiss?  It is solitary but loyal to our planet, circling us on our looping journey through the mysteries of space and time, lingering up there in view long after the sun has milked the dark night pale again.  Ah, good moon, sweet endearing moon, I count on you.  

There it is, our shy escort through the heavens, pulling at the oceans, sending them rushing through inlets and bays, back and forth, at its whim.  Its gentle influence may be weak compared to bolder and fiercer ones, but it is patient.  

Half the human species times itself to the moon; the moon and women are kin, swelling and thinning congruently, fecund and not, all in rhythm, keeping time with one another.  

The sun lights the moon's pale face whose reflection silvers the cupped surfaces of a restless ocean.  There it glistens like dancing whispers.  This is the abiding grace of eternity, this bellied moon, whose outline blurs with mist and vapors, a shape changer, a mystic.