The sun had gone, leaving only one last handprint of light against the evening, a sorrowing, a promise that he would come again in the morning. The world was falling back into the arms of night. I lay on the grass with my hands in the sky. I looked at the world from bird-low, cat-low, small wildflower height. Everything was different from down there. All my understanding became different too.
But it was getting cold, so I lifted myself up and headed home. After a few steps towards sunset, I took one last look back, over my shoulder, to the darker part of the sky. And there she was -
The moon, vast and golden, soft and heavy, drawing her cold stone body out of the sea to catch the sun's light and hold it for all of us standing in darkness on earth.
This is the tender moon, the moon of wishes, that rises between spring and summer. This is the daughter of the world.
I went home and looked at her again through my kitchen window. She had turned the sky above the ocean to a deep, rich sapphire that glowed. Such is the magic of the moon, ordinary magic : keeping hold of hope, and making the darkness gleam with sumptuous wonder, like a jewel, until all the fear of wildness and blindness is gone.