In Portland, last night, I could see the glimmer of the moon, fullish — hidden in the mists of the late sky; there were no stars to be seen — except straight up, in the darkest part of the arc of misted blackness.
I was thinking about the moon, her symbolism and mystery — the millions of years that she has told her tale, drawing the tides of the great seas in the pull of her power, as does she guide the tides of billions of others — the physic, the psychic.
There in the mist, fogged as a smudge of light, she was like a guidelight, a beacon out over the smoked night skies of Portland. And looking up into the sky, through the gathered clouds, an opening: I could think of a labyrinthine mapping — a sky cartography, that could take me from this point in the turning sky, out to her — sailing in the imagination, crossing the heavens and the seas of the darkest dark, stars are points of journey, to find my way to her.
Surely that map is there.
For now, I visualize it in my mind.
t | portland
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