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Twenty-nine and a half days

Every 29 and a half days,

marking the start of the lunar cycle.

We are plunged into darkness,

and in the darkness, things begin to line up.

Earth to one side, fire to the other, ether in the spaces in between.

When the timing is just right for things to begin.

The dark moon makes way for the new.

It travels cloaked in the glare of the suns light.

And this one moves closer, reaching farther.

Churning the seas, tugging harder at the tides.

We have grown wiser and move with her now.

We follow her lead, and our cup empties.

Chaos is the poetry in motion.

Phenomenal phenomena.

By which something so small

can gallop off blossoming into ripples of epic proportion,

setting a course for somewhere far away.

How do you track the exhale of stranger?

What if it cracks the earth and erupts upward spewing fire in a land whose language you don’t speak? What if we are looking in the wrong places?

If you expect to find all of the tracks in the mud, you’ll never find what you are searching for. If you expect anything, expect to be surprised.

Perplexed, speechless, cornered, dumbfounded even.

But don’t plan on following the course from point A to B if you want to get where you have to go.

There aren’t enough letters, symbols, sounds or sinkholes to fit onto your neat map.

If you think that you can’t stretch your wings under a tree on a warm June day and move mountains from an eon ago. Then you won’t.

If you know what your dreams mean. You will never know what they mean.

If you are only searching your mind for your own memories,

those are the only ones you will find.

You are in a hurry to prove yourself.

You are in a hurry to fail.

You are racing toward the cliffs edge in a landscape with no cliffs.

You are picking flowers where there are only whispers.

You are binding yourself down and burying your whole line in the dark.

We like the dark. We aren’t hiding.

You can move like poured gold through the shadows.

You carry everything you need to move back and for through time.

You are a message in a bottle that you have never bothered to read.

Who is doing the watching? Who is in charge of collecting?

So fluid and fleeting and final all at once.

A ceaseless maze changing hands or hats and moving on and on.

And on and on. Molting like a caterpillar. Growing wings.

Taking off and making waves

Some 10,000 miles away.

You are a complex system.

A simple, malleable creature.

A fragment of a complex system.

One drop of water in a sea.

A mirror, a glimmer, a crumb.

It doesn’t all make sense until it all begins to make sense.

© Elizabeth McLaughlin


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