It's Still Life

Did you see the moon race across the sky? Like a witch rising from the roots of stars, and the breeze through November leaves, teasing those percussioned bones. That moon, dressed in night, black and white, and hung oblong in a twine of pallored skin. On strings, it seemed, played by puppet masters, who possessed the joy of light and dark, and I waited, as if a child, for its biblical size to rise above every shape and shadow. Into the sky. Into a golden ancient coin — the smell of money, but no, this was the scent of the moon. Its perfume was the musk and mist of tranquility. A perigee-syzygy.

dVerse: Haibun Monday #25 This piece covers several prompts, including NaPoWriMo’s Dedication prompt. Note: A perigee-syzygy is the technical name for a Super Moon