An hour into morning and the full moon is a sad relic, a pasty disc barely adhering to the sky, disappearing. Where the stars are discrete and hide themselves away quickly, the moon lingers, embarrassing itself. Perhaps it cannot leave the stage, hoping for an encore. Perhaps there is still one more line to deliver, a line we did not know of and why we grow chagrined. Unable to form the words, the moon just lingers. With morning we salute the sun and, anticipating the new day, are grateful to have it. But for the moon we must be sad, though we are grateful to have had it.
journal of reflections by the resident of the Hermitary