The moon does not explain her phases.
She just keeps showing up.

The sun stretches across the sky like a tyrant of gold,
every ray a declaration, every hour a demand,
burning the edges of the world and leaving nothing untouched,
and people rush toward him eagerly,
blinded by his certainty,
drawn to a brilliance that fills every corner,
leaving no room for subtlety,
for the quiet undertow of feeling.

But the moon, she rises differently.

A silver authority that bends the night to her will,
pulling tides, stirring the water beneath our skin,
tracing the secret currents no sunlight ever reaches,
calling to the ones who linger in shadow,
to those who feel too much, who need more than fire,
who hear her soft insistence and cannot resist it,
even when the world tells them to look only at him.

He blazes with a confidence that demands to be acknowledged.
She whispers with a patience that makes the heart ache,
a gravity that draws silently, inexorably,
without ever raising her voice,
without ever asking for recognition,
yet commanding the devotion of those attuned enough to see.

He scorches the earth; she moves the unseen waters.
He fills every space with light; she leaves room to dream.
He is a crown of fire above them all; she is the quiet pull beneath the world,
ancient as longing, luminous as memory,
holding mysteries that cannot be named,
yet understood fully only by the ones who follow her pull.

Those drawn to him are dazzled, distracted, enthralled,
thrilled by the obvious, by brilliance that makes them gasp,
but those drawn to her stay longer in her orbit,
they are the quiet witnesses, the ones who bend toward depth,
who carry tides inside their own bodies,
who recognize that magic can be slow, deliberate, unseen,
yet utterly inescapable.

She moves through her phases, guided only by her own pull,
with the patience of the stars,
waning when she retreats into shadow,
waxing when she decides it is time to shine,
never bending to expectation, never explaining her absence,
and when she returns, silver and inevitable,
no one asks where she has been.

They simply lift their eyes
and allow themselves to be held
by the slow, patient gravity of her light,
a luminous insistence that the sun could never replicate,
a reminder that the night has its own power,
that even in darkness, the world listens.

– December 9th, 2025

11 am