When I pulled into the parking lot at school early last Wednesday, I looked up to see the slimmest crescent of moon in the midst of corrugated clouds. It’s easy to forget that these moon phases are an illusion of sorts–that we only see a fraction of the moon, but the entirety is there, out of sight. On that morning, something about that slim curve of visible light struck me as so tender…so vulnerable. Something about it grabbed my attention and still teases me.
Since that morning, I’ve looked at the picture over and over again. I find myself remembering the scene at odd moments. Wondering about its persistence. What was it that intrigued me so? The contrast of shapes between linear clouds and crescent moon? The contrast of color–charcoal grey and glowing white? The impossibly thin fragility of that sliver? I’ve been tinkering around with a poem, trying to find my way into it, but the words haven’t come together yet despite my best efforts.
When something is this “itchy” though, I know it will happen. Someday.