Magic of the Moon

Front steps in the dark with blue light shining on them.

5:20 a.m.

I got up yesterday morning at 5:15.  I wanted to see the super blue blood moon. I got up later than I had wanted to. Effing insomnia made me lose sleep again, and I was unable to rise at 4:45 when my alarm went off. But I jumped out of bed when I saw it was after 5:00. I still had time to see the eclipsed moon.

A Super Blue Blood Moon. Man, that’s poetry. Natural poetry. The Universe’s Poetry.

I love the moon, as it is. It’s already special to me. I didn’t want to miss this extra special moon.

I got the flashlight and went out back. I saw a guy two houses over doing the same thing. He stepped onto his deck, on a second floor, and went down the steps into his dark yard, using a flashlight. My flat is a downstairs unit. I stepped out on my deck and with my flashlight checked the yard for feral cats or raccoons. All clear. I switched off the flashlight and looked up at the sky. I didn’t see the moon. Must be behind the house, I thought. I didn’t want to step out into the dark, back yard. Sometimes those feral cats and raccoons leave scat. Ugh. So gross. I wasn’t gonna risk stepping in some. Or a critter might suddenly pop up from behind the fence, and that would surely make me scream out in surprise. And a shot of fear.

So, I come back in and try the front door. No cars at this hour. Or a rare one, anyway. Who would see me standing out in the middle of the street in my jammies and bathrobe, wearing a jacket? At least I was wearing sneakers, not slippers. And if anyone saw me, eff it. It’s a an extra special moon.

I wasn’t sure I’d have a good view of it. It could be behind these tall houses, flats, and apartments, here in The City. (Times like these, I miss living in a small town or even a burb. Where the night sky is darker, stars more stark, the view wider because even a two-story house doesn’t tower up this high. But I’m in love with The City.) I open the front door. Gasp! There it is. Right in front of me. Across the street.

Super blue blood moon above rooftop.

Super Blue Blood Moon

Damnit, it was beautiful.

It isn’t the biggest moon I’ve ever seen. Eighteen years ago, I saw a moon that looked like a huge space ship sitting on the freeway up ahead. I was on my way to work, at 3:30 in the morning. The moon was enormous, white, and bright. The size of this eclipsed moon is a dot, compared to that moon I saw. I arrived at work at the same time as a co-worker. He swiped his keycard, stepped aside and let me in first, smiling like a gallant knight. I said, “Thank you.” Then I said, “Did you see that moon? Wasn’t that fabulous?” He goes, “What moon?” I said, “What moon? That huge moon we were driving toward on the freeway.” He says, “Oh, I didn’t notice. I never look up at the sky.” You didn’t need to look up at the sky. It was a giant, glowing globe on the horizon, as if sitting on the freeway up ahead. It was wider than than the freeway we drove on. Geezus, I hated working as a payment processor, making my bread. As much as Bukowski hated the post office.

The second biggest moon I ever saw, two or three times bigger than this one, was many, many years ago. It was a pale, yellow moon. I was with a poet. Twenty years older than I was. First poet I ever knew. We saw the moon rise up over the hills. It rose quickly, like a balloon. He grabbed my wrist, and he goes, “ESTELA! LOOK!” His tiny, blue eyes about popped out of their sockets. He squeezed my wrist like a tourniquet. “LOOK!” he says, giving my arm a sharp shake. A fifty year old man, excited as a five year old boy. I too was thrilled to witness such spectacular beauty. It was amazing. Literally surreal as a dream. Magical. He’s the only person I ever met who reacted to the moon with the same intensity as myself. I mean, he was, after all, a poet. He taught creative writing. He hated his job, hated teaching creative writing. But he did it for his bread.

white moon lowering behind a rooftop.

Lunar eclipse completing, moon lowering behind a building.

From my view, this moon was not as large as seen in other places. But it was immensely beautiful, nonetheless. And all I had to do was open my front door.

So, sure, there is a scientific explanation for this. Planetary orbits, a specific alignment of sun, earth, and moon, time and space and all that. And the moon changes color (appears to, anyway) because of the atmosphere and wavelengths of light that reach us. These plain facts kill the poetry.

I love the moon. For me, it has a magic energy. A poetic energy.

Hell. Afterward, I felt depressed and lonesome. Maybe a poem will come to me. Or, a better way to phrase that, maybe I can find one to pull out of the well of mystery.

About Poet Dressed In Black

Poet. Artist. Grammy of one, a granddaughter. Mom of three, son and two daughters, all grown. Individualist. Care-taker of Isabel, an agoraphobic, fear-aggressive, very nervous, delicate flower, Chihuahua mix.
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