The bare branches of the Maple Tree scrawled across the predawn sky, tilting, swaying, and cracking in the dark winds, stirring me into wakeful consciousness. I heard the branches cackle like the hollow tones of bamboo wind chimes, calling me out to join them. I rose from my bed and tip-toed through the silent house. Outside, my winter nightgown billowed around me. The damp grass and soft ground, cold against my bare feet, welcomed me into the pause between midnight and day’s first blush.
Just beyond the naked tree was the “Cold Moon”. Surrounded by ambiguous clouds creating a hazy mist, her light was at once soft, and bright. She was just there, just hanging, suspended in the cosmos, defying the vast space between us like a magical trick-of-the-eye, seeming to be almost close enough to touch.
I couldn’t touch her.
“Embrace the stillness,” she whispered. I did.
I watched. She was luminous, though her light was evasive. I listened. She was silent.
The Maple Tree cracked and rattled, peaking my already heightened awareness. “Kindle your own flames,” she said.
She stood strong between me and the Cold Moon; a the veil between me, the woman’s body in a flannel gown, and me, the evasive power of the Cold Moon’s presence.