Crescent Moon

I am a crescent moon kind of girl. I love a crescent moon and I think it loves me back, it seems to be winking slyly at me from above.

People celebrate the full moon and call it by so many names, harvest moon, strawberry moon, blue moon. For me, the full moon is too pregnant with expectation. Bring this project to a close, tie up that loose end, get on with it already. The full moon makes me feel heavy, it is no wonder it makes some creatures howl at it and roam the dark countryside.

The new moon does me little good, hanging amongst the stars like a deflated basketball. It needs new ideas, beginnings and plans to pump it up. It brings pressure and promise and comes in empty-handed.

But ah, the crescent moon lingers in the balance between the two, neither here nor there with never a care. It slices the heavens like a sweet sliver of cake. It waxes or wanes between creation and completion, occupies the same space where I spend much of my time. Head in the clouds, biding our time. It asks nothing and takes nothing and together, we are suspended in the blissful peace of a thing half done.

A gibbous moon is nice, its belly full from a meal mostly eaten, the gaping line of its mouth swallowing the last remaining shadow. It is the friend who stays a bit too long, in an awkward silence that presses me to clear my throat and move things along. Almost time to put things to bed again as the full moon wraps an arm over his shoulder, telling him “step aside, it’s my time to shine”.