Sequin Aurelia

a reflection of sight

Your mention of the moon sliver was with me the other evening as I watched a brilliance of silver pool into a pin pricked surface of sky and erupt into the plunge of night. A focused beam just next to the moon’s rim, mirrored, slightly signaled, subconscious survival from someone who’d otherwise be lost in an inked and bouldered sea.

This communication of light chased me straight through my iris and all that silver washed down the back of my throat and into my belly hungry for a quickening of intuition as to what else would appear in our allegorical skies in this metaphorical year.

I’ve been dreaming of birds since that night the precision quick liquid light of Venus teased to touch the crisp dish of the moon.

These golden birds form a horizon, backs to me, wings spread into the air, neither hoping for flight or resisting it, their feathers nearly touch, but their gazes never, vision as broad as the infinite their wings stretch for. Sight so clear it rounds to polish the planet and back to back to back again.

And as one grew restless and flapped its wings, it rustled to my realization: they were watching me. From 24,901 miles, 5 feet away from where I was, all while I faced the beam in the sky, longing for lineage in an evidence of time.

But instead, the silver pool reflected its own light stream from the silver coating of my mirrored eye, meeting now in the middle, a becoming of light, simulating a view of myself and the golden birds in the resetting effervescence of this view of forever repeating, in the suspension of this rotation of night sky.

Comforted and lost by a familiar unknowing and an ungoingness of might between myself and the everchanging unchanging, and the tart and dusted mineral of my heart’s ever-longing to hold onto the feeling of question, even if the answer I know already is a tindered echo of what I am asking, but avoiding.

Like, carbon.

I thought of what I would tell you about this, and I am not sure if I said it or thought it, or which would have been louder than the other -We have only ourselves to find, to be the time that we keep- because when it came through it moved like thunder.

I must say, I am happy for the moon, who is so often alone, to have had the company of a planet, and the felt weight in its fabric, of an other, while looking upon this particular momentary view of earth-with, as alone and as painfully, beautifully, uniquely, bizarre as it ever has been, and as it will never be again.