Harvest Moon

It happens this time of year.
The sun and moon illuminate the sky with an equal hue, an equal power.

The branches dance, rejoicing.
Their leaves whisper words of welcome, chattering in brief spells of chills.

This is her new year. When the two sky lights are one, disengaging the disparity between dark and light.


Whole, too, does her soul become.

This time marks the end.
This time marks the beginning.
It's print is as humble as the morning tide's gentle caress.


Here is where the mist and haze of what is yet to come surrounds her.


Looking over her shoulder, she recognizes the view.
It's landscape is vast, created by two foes, wrestling for power.
The tall mountain, charged by the convergence of fate and trodden by her feet, stands looming the distance.


She smiles wanly, knowing its foothills, boulders, creeks and trees of shade.
Its leaves, her memories, shake with sadness and dance with joy as she rambles on.
Reaching for one, she plucks it from its branch.


Breathing deeply, she fills her lungs with the air of paradoxes around her.
High. Low. Dark. Light.
The flavors are the same, as they have not yet been defined.
They have not yet become.

The sun and moon beckon her forth.
The subdued hum of the moon's pleasant orange cools the glittering passion of the sun's orange.


Clasping the leaf, her souvenir, her memory, she wipes a lone tear from her cheek.
She steps forward towards the orange dawn of what has not yet become.