The other night, not last night but some night I dreamt that the moon was waning, just like in real life, but everyone kept trying to convince me it was full. No no I said, I knew we're almost at the end of Tammuz and Rosh Chodesh is coming soon, no mames. But then the moon split full-sense-soaked huge on the scene, fat and glowing harvest-orange and full to bursting, pushing back at the accordion-folds of darkness.
Dear dark o' the moon, when thin-skinned irritability gives way to wonder at the permeability between worlds underneath a cold black bowl of sky. There's something about that dilation, the aperature widened by the absence of the moon, that makes membranes thin. I'm just grateful when instead of feeling oversensitive and nuts around this time I get moments of receptive sensitivity too, prickly with wonder for a change.