Faith, Moth and the Moon

A story came to me about faith. It might be an essay or a poem. Whatever it is, it told me something helpful so I share it with you:

I sat in an airless room one night thinking about faith and thinking I didn’t have any when a moth flew at the window. He was trying to get out into the night. The moth flew again and again at the glass with his cream-colored wings and wouldn’t stop. I admired his tenacity and faith that he could find the moon if only he kept trying. I opened the window and let him out into the night. I knew he wouldn’t make it to the moon, what a silly idea, though I could not help but admire his bright heart.

Later that night I sat down to meditate. A moth flew in the window and landed on my face. I realised at that moment I was the moon.

And the moth, at that moment, had achieved its goal.

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Soft fog of light

soft fog of light
and tree sense

mist uncurls
and forms again

a branch in
grey silver
seems to die

moon sets
uncurling

unseen

my heart

in the fresh snap
of pine

forms again

Another poem inspired by the enigmatic Loch Voil in Scotland.

Grief is the Crow

Grief is the crow
that stole the moon
and hid it in the shadows.

Grief is the shadow
that forgot the moon
and searches endlessly.

The heart an empty bowl,
a hand curls around
nothing but memory.

The end of grief
comes suddenly.

The crow soars
dark against the sun
and the heart soars with him,
free.

Star-Shaped Grief

She spread
on the surface
of the great green
water,

star-shaped.

Her heart
told a tale
that would crack
land
with its
violence

but currents
softly carried
each secret

to wise depths.

As her heart
bled out

she became
the unbreakable
ocean.

When she gathered
herself,

to return to her world
to keep quiet again

there was grief.

It was not her time
to rest
in the immensity
of natural love

she

star-shaped,

had to walk
the land again.

I am the Moon’s

A swirling under
the lunatic moon

she says
dance with me
yet stands
so far so
gleaming.

The wind pushes
leaves through
the tangles
of shadow-

at what cost
do I linger
in dappled night?

I am
the moon’s
so I am
not
lost

until
I am

caught in the
clarity of
the sun’s
eyes.

Heart of the Rose

My lungs crave
an uncommon air,
fruit of sun,
rain and dirt,

the sweet scent
of the flame
at the heart of
the rose.

One fell at her feet,

the sun lit
the stage
in gold,

my own heart
in the air
with her leaps,

toe pointed true
she spun through
the floor,
burning

until the rose opened

teaching me
the strength
in her delicate grace,

arms wide

the silk dress of
petals unfurled
to reveal

a heart of flame

the sun contained
in the delicate
body

born
of rain
and dirt
and fire.