Moon Shadow

On the first day of May, the Flower Moon remembers

Haiku

Flower moon rises
Blooming through a velvet veil
Harbinger of hope

The Flower Moon is in full bloom tonight, rising like royalty over the White Mountains. The charcoal sky swirls with dark shadows and burnt-orange edges, reminding me of the last time Jim saw this moon.

Six years ago, we swung on a hammock, curled up under a flannel blanket, singing every Moon song we could think of. When Jim tuned his guitar, channeling his inner Cat Stevens, the night stood still, and I memorized the way the moonlight hit his hands. The air tasted like lavender and the promise of spring. Little did we know the chaos the next few months would bring.

Only six Flower moons have risen since the last time I heard his voice.

Counting in moons makes the years since his death seem less distant—a shorter stretch rather than a long dark trek. It seems easier to hear him sing across the haze, his hands strumming a guitar somewhere just out of sight, wrapped in the warmth of an old flannel blanket.

Makes me want to start singing moon songs once again.