when the full moon finally
finds me, i meet the mouth
of the mason jar to the faucet,
watch as one part of my
home empties itself into
another. the water slams against
the glass as i walk to the
windowsill, find the jar a home
among the monstera. find myself
worrying the downpour will dampen
the signal, the thick hover of cloud
will sever me from ceremony,
that the moon will not find me,
or my small vessel.
i forget
that magic is imperfect, & meets
us where we are.
that there exists
a cerulean effort in me, capable of
conjuring beauty,
even as i drift along the sea floor.
that intention is the first language
of ritual.
CarnivalDark 