Under A Harvest Moon

The quilt holds us in the moonlight. 

We stretch out and sing loud and lay tangled in a nest of strong bodies, heads on hips, fingers woven into each others hair, shoulders against bellies. 

We howl at the harvest moon and plink hawthorn berries into tea as we whisper of letting go, of love, of growing our hearts open.

We laugh and strum and growl and lay silent and waiting for the light in the darkness to tell us something. 

We listen. 

We write our own stories as we stumble across the rocky earth, we draw the others in with our voices clear and joyful. 

We are each others heartbeats. 

We (I) don’t want the moon-bathed night to end.

I fall asleep under the trees alone in my nylon cocoon. 

I hear the coyotes and chickens and trucks and oak leaves create a symphony of the valley around me.

I leave tomorrow.

Another full moon, another place, another life awaits. 

I will bring my quilt, I will bring my big ole heart, I will let the seeds germinate and grow and create lives of their own. 

I will sip tea and think of these (us) souls on top of a hill in the moonlight, singing, howling, comforting, being. 

I will love and cry and laugh and break open.

I will carry this gratitude with the rocks and shells and notes and tiny flower buds in the cracked mason jar of this one infinite home.