My soul was shaken, not stirred
What A Thing To Write About, The Moon
My soul was shaken, not stirred, when I saw the moon over the mountain the other night. The air was upon my skin, kind of like spring-astringent, tightening it.
And I've always pondered air, you know? And though I can't touch it, it can touch me, kind of like some relationships mala and sometimes bene, or what a good one-way mirror is to sight, I suppose. But it was outside my ken, or pen, then, anyways. The moon, that is.
But I was moved, and being the unmovable, that's something.
The moon, hanging there, mystery-sphere-like, stayed.
And stays.
Like the dreams of grandpa and grandma, and the hopes of unlikely actors, or the fears of soldiers, with guts swirling and twirling, or the simple, clear joys of a baby girl, it’s impervious to moving on.
It stays.
Doesn't matter that the world below is transformed. That old, heart-tugger, dream-maker moon, just floats across the sky. And wishes are made, and potent (and impotent, too, I suppose) spells are cast.
And riding upon the moon I saw, with my face astringed, all manner of the passions of humanity. The world lay waiting. Waiting for the moon to give - but she wouldn't. She won't. We must give in to the moon, if we must live.
What a thing to write about, the moon. A thousand poets and, yep, songwriters have already. But tonight the moon is mine. I lift my cold-snapped face to the sky, and raise my arms to hug that moon. The carriage of dreams unspoken, of hearts unbroken. My moon. New moon and blue moon and true moon.
And I am stirred, after all.
