Melon Moon

Melancholy seeds of faith, invisible roots, and how love continues after loss.

Haiku

Garden of stardust

Harvest moon ripe on the vine

Food for an old soul

Writing helps me process grief. When sorrow overwhelms me, I grab a pen and spill out a waterfall of words. Sometimes my thoughts are free-flowing, perfect on the first pass. Other times, they’re a surge of emotions, circling through every depth before landing on a truth. More often than not, my musings end up as a haiku.

Last week, one of my pieces was accepted by Haiku Pause, for their current series inspired by the Artemis II Mission. The collection is made up of “Haiga,” an ancient style of poetry that pairs a traditional haiku with an illustration or photograph.

Scrolling through the gallery on my phone, it was easy to find one to submit. I’d been a moon-watcher most of my life, but after my husband Jim died in 2021, the fascination deepened. I became even more in tune with the night sky, following celestial rhythms and tracking every phase of the moon.

The way I captured last year’s Harvest moon stopped me in my tracks. There it was, hanging in a galactic garden, juicy and ripe as a watermelon. The eerie green tint made me wonder if the Northern Lights had leaked into my backyard, or if Jim decided to grow melons in the sky. Watermelon was always his favorite.

One summer he planted a few watermelon seeds in a haphazard garden bed in the backyard. We’d recently moved into a new home, and this was our first attempt at an organic garden.

“They’re not going to grow,” I said, observing from a beach chair in the shade, my feet tucked up underneath me.

Jim was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, khaki shorts, and a pair of flip-flops. The afternoon sun glowed on his bare shoulders, and I could see the dirt under his fingernails. A sly smile played on his lips, as if he had a glimpse of the upcoming October.

“Wanna bet?” he replied.

He won. That fall we picked the sweetest watermelon this side of heaven. We cut it open straight from the vine, juice running down our chins. I might have lost that bet, but found myself believing in the seemingly impossible.

Back then, I was laughing through the miracles. Nowadays, I question the signs and wonder if they’re real.

That is, until I feel a hummingbird brush my cheek, hear a whistle in the wind, or find a favorite fruit on the moon. Even in the depths of sorrow, there are reasons to trust in the unseen.

I betcha Jim is smiling from the far side of the moon—sticky fingers and all—waiting for me to write the next verse.

Haiku Pause