I.

The waning moon has turned this hour above the crowns of trees, and spilled its liquid light into the yard. So this evening is accompanied by a shadow of sun's heat. That same moon that years and years ago was torn from earth's belly, born from her and borne away on some celestial tide: once blazing with the fire that gave us life, now its patient ashes spy upon our daily dance, at times shy and out of sight, at times winking at our plight, or otherwise full-faced and offering its white-washed world for our somnambulisms.

With no one's arms to hold you from these sights, the dimensions fall into each other, you join the ranks of every color-blinded creature as it flies or crawls or navigates the night employing sharper, duller vision. A leaf-rattle makes the paw pause mid-step, a stick snap shakes the courage of the smallest, while the sudden flush of air or nearly-silent slant of wing above makes cowering the act of statues whose hearts race from one moment alive to the next, still alive, alive yet still, waiting for no tooth or talon's spike to rake the nerves.

Some of us are larger, and suffer less.

But suffer even so, adventure when better ventures aren't reached by opening fingers, opened hearts. A footstep starts the body where the spirit would prefer to stop. Still. A stick snap stops the world around the boot of men: who goes there? What would a man be wanting of the night, if not a hunt of one sort or another?

The moon will not stand still; her mother moves below her, always at arms-distance. The child spins as if to turn away; the weight of their connection keeps her always falling toward the larger body. A pure, white face. Smiling as she rises, sad when she departs. A desert of desire, whose fires went out so long ago, depends on stars' impression to brightern her face.

Who wouldn't see a spark up there? Some ember that was better than its gray surround, some tiny spark of life the kindled past into a second sunrise, companion star, ga olden guide to keep us honestly awake and in each other's arms, to banish sleep in favor of a man or woman's favored sleep companion.


II.

One can speak more plainly. An apple, for example: there was nothing woman ever gave a man that was his unmaking. I need to rewrite Genesis, since its metaphor is difficult to embrace. If (for example) Eve opened Adam's eyes, it was to the preciousness of life. I guess that might be painful; but hardly an expulsion from the Garden, rather its invitation. There is some tacit assumption by the readers of those ancient writers, of a paradise that was lost, only to be regained after this body's been betrayed as temporary residence, somewhat of a slum-lord's tenement.

Paradise is every moment, but our skill in seeing it somewhat clouded by emotions or events. The paradise of creation both in the company of men and of women, building walls or taking them down, raising up pillars of life or whirling in the great river of each others' dancing, scratching at the earth or forging teams to push back need, or needing the sweet waters of ourselves to wash over that hard labor and make us one.

No, an apple, or a pomegranate, maybe have been a gift of fruit, of sustenance, of sight or of delight. The days that followed striving to maintain that paradise. If missed, at times, it cannot be mistaken that it always will exist.


III.

The television told me tonight that 1 in every 8 people in the United States suffers hunger. If that is high percentage, imagine my old friends in Indonesia, or the Sertão, or India, where population is so great or natural resource so scarce that the ratio is likely inverted. What will you do about that? Remove the idea of guilt-by-inequity. An action forced by guilt was a blind action, and a slap. Instead, imagine your wealth. The problem is not easily solved, yet making small movements to resolve it makes it easier. What if...

What if a few dollars each day went to help a nation's hunger? What if we set aside the cynicism which says "our effort makes no difference; too many plunderers between here and there; too much need in my own family". Yes, yes, yes. Still, many of us have the strength of surplus, and every effort makes a difference even in ourselves, even knowing that we have acted changes how we walk and think. There are many programs through our communities and churches which make donation less anonymous, which carry goods and capital hand to hand. And we are throwing pebbles down the mountain: gravity helps us: we are of the wealthy nations, whose small stones hit others and still others, so that once our tiny effort reaches bottom, the side of a mountain may have moved.

Something to consider. While the moon is circling overhead, telling tales of generations upon generations of humans; when a woman stands beside her man, or a man puts his arms around his woman; when night rolls into its deepest slumber, and wakeful people wonder what it means to be alive.

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