No one talks about the waning,
though so much happens here.
In the morning
We collect our moonwater and forget
that worlds are forming
in the wake of that zenith.
This is the place in the cycle where the tide
has combed the beaches smooth again
and left the sea caves
empty and drooling like the mouths of sleeping dragons.
This is the part where the trees perform their slow,
chromatic death -
A finale to rival the opening number.
In this liminal space,
In the resonance that follows crescendo
is the flux that gives timbre its texture,
Wherein occurs the folding
And falling of petals,
The thinning of crowds,
The shedding of velvet and the hardening of bone.
This is the fourth act.
Look away now,
And you will miss the transformation.
Full Moon Rituals: