Wolf moon: is when I love you. It’s the moon of you. Hello, Mr. Wolf. I love you and I love wolves and I love living near the forest. I hear a pack run through the maze of wood as I put sheets on the bed. I hear an orchestra of growls as I mix the dinner soup. I hear a lone howl as I settle down with the night and a book. A wolf has lost his mate.
Hunger moon: is when I’m starved for you. A hunger no amount of soup nor sleep will satiate. I wake starving even though I touch you all night. The night feels my need haloing me in a celestial glow so like that of the moon. She beckons the day to hurry along. Her fraternal twin is lazy though, and won’t gather enough energy to come sooner for at least a few more weeks or so. You touch me under the first blooming kisses of the sun. I feast.
Crow moon: is when I call for you. The forest holds up a magic mirror to my call and I hear crows respond, my sound finding them hidden among the foliage. The darkness of the forest and the darkness of the crows complement my mood. I go through the motions loud and without apology. I feel wild and rude and don’t survive well in captivity. I’m a trickster and I dress a scarecrow in the yard just to spook you.
Growing moon: is when I change. Not you, not for you. I change because I can, I grow because the view is bound to be better higher up. I grow with the forest, with the flora and fauna youth. This moon is for me though you are there to watch my waxing. I grow for all the days I make the decision, whether conscious or not, not to grow. I grow for myself.
Milk moon: is when mothers feed their babies. But we have no baby to nourish nor cow to milk so we touch each other in the mead. Our bones mature stronger and our eyes gleam whiter. I’m constantly at ends with you to keep the room at the same temperature as the refrigerator. You always win. And despite the lack of suckling babies and dairy cows, I still love you.
Rose moon: is when I smell of roses. Roses on the windowsill next to rosewater scones. Roses crushed in my bath and under my breasts. Rosewood scented perfume rubbed on my neck, rose petal lotion rubbed into my thighs, and subsequently onto you. My rose garden is blossoming with deep reds and scarlets and carmines. You adore my idée fixe so I adore you.
Thunder moon: is when I’m mad. Quite positively and resolutely. I find myself averting my gaze so you do not see the insanity that swims laps in my eyes. Worse, I often believe a scene a part of a dream only to remember I haven’t yet gone to sleep. The forest and her sky share my affliction, roiling and toiling in a war against themselves. Together, we are one big witch’s brew of summer spells and charmed curses.
Corn moon: is when I return to my roots. To my mother. To my childhood house that seems smaller each time I visit, as if by some trick of Alice’s looking glass. Time apart does us good. I remember that we cannot grow on our own, like corn we need help to develop. I sift through minutes in the kitchen; I wake I cook, I can’t sleep I bake. I miss you. Soon, I return home in a daze of watercolor dusk with baskets of 2:00 am treats.
Harvest moon: is when I work. I discover forgotten to do lists under our pillows and furiously work at crossing them off. It’s the time of year of year I always forget to reap what I sow and the wind has to remind me with a tap on my shoulder or flutter of the shutters. With her urging, I recollect I have much to do and precious little sand left in the hourglass. I start a vegetable garden. I end the vegetable garden. It’s a busy moon and I buzz around you like a worker bee around her hive.
Blood moon: is when I see red. Red in rage, red in love, red in disquiet. I’m well read and you just try to stay out of my way. I carry my book in a death grip and see the world in a violent haze—I swear, the sky bleeds. I turn carnivorous, eat my meat rare. Sometimes you are too well-done for my taste and I spit you out. I bang my body into furniture just to draw blood and watch in fascination as red seeps out my skin. My red gaze wanes and colors reappear again.
Hunter’s moon: is when you are my prey. I pursue you around the house, creeping around as if the forest were inside rather than out. I’m a predator, I growl low in my throat and howl high at the moon. I’m hunting tonight. I stalk you to the bedroom where I make my move, tackling and pinning. You flip me over, prey overtaking predator. A hunting party of kisses on my cheek, my neck, my everywhere. I am sane again and I am thankful.
Cold moon: is when I realize I loved you even under the moons I didn’t say the words. Winter arrives with a vengeance and I wander around lost, a hermit in three pairs of socks and a cape of blankets. The windows are closed and buckled but the gale knocks mercilessly on them. Shuttering, shuddering, I huddle up and even my wool, hot coco, books don’t warm me. I’m cold and I want you to hold me.
