Parked in my vehicle with the motor and heat running, the window down, and the nip of  March air surrounding me, I must have looked ridiculous to cars passing on the levee road.  I did not care.  just as the voice of the Pacific calls me, pulling me toward her more often than time allows me to relent, so, too, does the bright orb in the midnight sky pull my eyes upward.

I have not skill to capture her glory, nor words to describe the peace that I find in her glow.  As I ease the car into drive and make my way back to my tiny house, I watch the moon in my rearview mirror.  She continues to smile upon me as I park.  I take my stick in hand.  My weight falls on its length and I tightly grasp its handle.  I place my feet with care  on each stone of my walk, then climb the stairs to my porch.    All the while, the light in the spring sky guides my steps.  I close my door against the night air, but fancy that the moon has lifted herself into the southern sky, that she might join my feeble porch light in keeping watch as I sleep.

It’s the seventh day of the one-hundred and eleventh month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

The Kind Moon, by Sara Teasdale

I think the moon is very kind
To take such trouble just for me.
He came along with me from home
To keep me company.

He went as fast as I could run;
I wonder how he crossed the sky?
I’m sure he hasn’t legs and feet
Or any wings to fly.

Yet here he is above their roof;
Perhaps he thinks it isn’t right
For me to go so far alone,
Tho’ mother said I might.