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“Look at the moon!! I point out the window. There’s a golden crescent perched in the star-
speckled sky, slightly hovering above the dark Skagit tree line opening valleys with its soft
cempazúchitl glow. My eyes dodging hills, tracking it as we speed down the highway.
He looks over quickly, keeping his attention on the road-- “it’s a toenail!” The dissonance rattles
my brain.
“A TOENAIL ...!”
I screech in my head (or maybe out loud?)
How can you call it a toenail?? Some disgusting thing –
a dead, discarded clipping.
A crunchy, funky piece of our feet
that we flush down drains, throw in the trash,
unceremoniously cut off and dispose of.
No,
that is NOT my moon.
My moon witnesses every prayer.
My moon partakes in your ceremony.
My moon sways tides & sinks boats.
She is our mother, guide, compass, eternal love.
She offers us solace, hope, direction through calm & storm.
Letting go of my clutched pearls, I soften my gaze towards the moon.
A toenail – a quotidian, reliable facet of life.
An act of love and care for self—a tender tending to our toes
and feet.
Crescent moon clippings dotting bathroom floors,
spread over countertops, scattered among blades of grass.
Corporal offerings as old as time...