When the Moon is Full

The moon arrives completely in the night,

a silver coin suspended over trees,

and every roof is washed with quiet light.

The sleeping fields grow pale beneath the moon,

while shadows gather softly at the trees,

as if the world has paused beneath the night.

No star can quite compete with such a night;

the moon has claimed the darkness with its light,

and silver spills between the waiting trees.

A fox moves soundlessly beneath the moon,

while windows shine like fragments of the night

and dreams drift slowly through the silver trees.

The tide remembers what the darkness knows:

the moon can pull the hidden waters near,

then leave them breathing underneath the trees.

We look above and feel the ancient night,

the same round lantern shining on the moon

that watched our ancestors beneath these trees.

There is no promise written in the light,

no prophecy concealed within the moon;

it simply keeps its appointment with the night.

Yet something changes when it fills the sky:

the ordinary world becomes a dream,

and silence seems to bloom among the trees.

By morning, all the silver leaves the trees,

the stars return to guard the fading night,

and somewhere westward waits the setting moon.

But while it lasts, the darkness holds its light—

a perfect circle, bright against the night,

a quiet world beneath the watching trees.

Perhaps that is the gift the full moon brings:

not answers, nor a promise from the night,

but one bright moment when the world seems whole.

We stand beneath the branches and the trees,

look upward through the unforgotten light,

and find ourselves reflected in the moon.