[“Dig your feet in the dirt until the earth reaches your shins. Then you’ll really sink.”]

I think I’m rotating against the world. I don’t have to love it, but I have to live in it. The seasons don’t do much for me anymore, because I live for the moon.

The sun changes in each season- it swallows the trees and spits flowers alongside the greenery. It sighs across the cornfields and makes the air taste sweet. The autumn clouds light a flame and the sun begins to spark in an eerie hue. We watch it roll over the chill and bite back at the stars. Winter takes its fingers and softly screams into the horizon- making it choke and fade against the backsplash from the clouds. The sun gives up- but the sun is too delicate for such a storm.

But the moon stays the same. The moon hush’s the heat. The moon swallows the leaves whole. The moon let’s the ice curl over the town. The moon watches the flowers peak though rooted ground. It never waivers. It always shows up. It whispers in a screaming room. It strikes a rhythm in the dark space that sets every night, regardless of the season. The gentle glow will always greet you if you wait for it.

So next time you curse the sun for not showing up, remember the other side of it all.

Wash my hands in a glistening light – I look up and swear I feel the shift. Plant myself under the trees and listen for the same call that beckons my spirit. Covered in the earth as the light from the sky annoits me graciously. I think I’m rotating against the world, after all.