Not twice this day.
Inch time foot gem.
This day will not come again.
Each minute is worth a priceless gem.
Stepping outside after the soft shawled fall of first dark. Lost leaves shrugged off the beech and the Japanese maple scatter rose and gold patches that glimmer on the damp pebbled walk brushed with soft light from the porch. I turn west along the crackled sidewalk towards the corner and glide into the slim shadows of the cedars. As I glance up Beyond their edges night rises and blooms around me. There, behind the nimbus of mist haloed around the streetlight, the new moon rises tilted like some supplicating palm against the darkening last faint line of the day far away.
Above the arc of the new moon, I see, faintly, the orb of the Earth’s shadow dark against dark. I’m out on a short small errand for a quart of milk at the corner store. Only a few seconds, only sixty-five steps in the night when going either to or from. Here I am subsumed in the dark and lashed to the planet. You are here too. Here we all are rolling through one more day here on the Earth turning before the sun, here for one more cycle of the moon turning around the Earth, in and out of the shadow obscuring and then revealing and the again obscuring its face, here for one of twelve lunar cycles that add up to one more cycle of the Earth around its home star sliding turning and turning an endless gyre towards Lyra.
You say you don’t believe in Grace, in Miracles? Walk with me on my path so that we are three. Take those sixty-five steps to the corner store in the glow of the Night Light. Take it slow.
Open your eyes. Open all your eyes. Look outside — look beyond — yourself.