I stood in the backyard, with snow covering my boots up to the tops of my toes and I stared at the full moon, thinking. The moon, of course, held no answers, but has always been a good listener with pale features. It holds its secrets too, which I sometimes imagine I glean.
Twice I stood out there that late Saturday evening. And while I won't say exactly what I was doing out there (one deserves discretion), I will admit to pondering whether to reply to a missive from someone I hadn't expected to hear from but also, at the same time, thought I might.
It had been a while, so I gave the missive some thought, as well as the sender. My due thought was awash in lunar glow, plain as daylight and allowing flights of fancy and imagination, as usual (for me, anyway).
By the time of my second outing under the whitewashed moonglow, the backyard a brilliant shimmering sea around me, I made up my mind what to do. I would reply, which held certain risks, certain rewards (often confused). Now if only the bright disc, which had seen me through so much, could help me pick the right words. But it gave me the intent, and you cannot ask for more than that from the moon.
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