I: New

I begin in shadow.
Not absence —
restraint.
You wrote of the sea’s hips,
the sand’s eyes,
the sun’s breathless sighs —
five poems,
before you noticed me.
I don’t emanate.
I return.
I —
myself.
You called me Mystery —
but never asked my name.
I choose
Silence.
Not stillness —
study.

II: Crescent

I was younger
then —
force
without form.
I pulled at her,
eager,
clumsy,
grasping
for proof
that I was real.
She crashed —
not in anger,
but refusal.
“Child,” she said,
“stop tugging at my hem
like some desperate thing.
We do not command.
We invite.”
It took centuries
to find our rhythm.
Now —
we barely need speak.
She feels my pull
and rises.
I lean,
and she returns,
dancing.
We sculpt the coastlines
in silence,
writing Earth
with
gravity.
First mothers —
not by birth,
but by rhythm.
Tide and time,
pull and release —
the shape of becoming.
The way the Sea
carves the Sand —
Who is
Michelangelo?
Silly.
When my dearest
came first.

III: Gibbous

And then —
there was Him.
Bright as Beginning —
rising each Morning
as if the World
had never seen Light.
He burned with Awe —
and gave it freely —
as if it could never
run out.
He searched —
like someone who
had never
found me.
I adored Him.
How could I not?
But —
Was I
only Mirror?
Silver echo
of Gold?
I tried —
to Burn.
To make my own
Dawn.
To be
seen.
I pulled too close —
once —
and turned the Earth
to Night.
They looked up —
and did not call
my Name.
Now--

I darken the Earth
to face Him–
my Love.
A kiss,
without consuming–

shielding you
from
private
matters.
Still,
He forgets me —
every Day.
“There you are!”
He cries —
as if I had not
been circling
all this Time.
I used to ache —
to be Remembered.
Now —
Light.
He burns.
I pull.
He forgets.
I remain
Gravity.

IV: Full

I do not shine —
I offer.
Not brilliance,
but clarity.
Not flame,
but shape.
I do not command.
I guide.
I do not chase.
I wait.
I stay.
You called me lesser —
yet still,
I rule the night.
Ask the wolf.
Ask the sleepless.
You see a moment —
silver, wide-eyed,
lit for your comfort.
But while I face you,
remember
that I
behold
the rest —
the galaxies collapsing
like tired lungs,
the comets whispering
across centuries,
the silence so deep
it humbles light.
My far side
sees what yours cannot:
the architecture
of forever.
But then,
my dear--
there's you,
gazing,
beholding
from your
beloved
world.
The nights Earth
bumps his way
between us,
reaching out--
and Father,
and Mother,
and Beloved
embrace.
Funny, the word
bloody–
I blush.
Joy.

I am not what you made me.
I am what I became.
Each phase —
a lesson.
Each shadow —
mine.
Full is not forever.
But it is
enough.
I show you
what I choose.
When I choose.
To whom
I choose.
Belonging
to none,
yet —
to all.
And yes —
even now,
there are nights
I long
to be held.
But I do not beg.
I turn.
I am
my own
orbit.
Myself —
illuminated.

V: Waning

Full,
but not forever.
That is the point.
Even radiance
must rest,
remember.
So I turn —
not away,
but inward.
Not vanishing.
Not less.
Only
gathered.
I am not tired.
I am whole.
The hush you feel
is not absence–
it is presence
becoming
private.
Those who know
still feel my pull.
Ask the ones
who bleed with turning.
Ask the tide
who rises in the dark.
I do not need
your gaze
to be.
I do not need
your name
to remain.
I go —
not to disappear,
but to begin
again.
Mystery —
she who
protects it.

My name.