the grandmother
The night begins,
when the moon
—Grandmother of the villages—
comes out with her lime-white candle
to light up the silence.
The darkness
hides in the canyons,
the small birds
roll up their songs
and the trees
lie on their own shadows.
The grandmother
who hasn’t slept for centuries
sinks
into the eyes of the night.
-Humberto Ak’abal
Gladsome Lights 
Oh Gretchen, so good of you!
My Mary Anne pointed out the great moon last night, and I looked at it through the trees, but only briefly and with mild interest, eager to get back to my reading —probably about the time you were looking at it too.
In the morning I opened this message, and now I can see so much more of the moon both tonight and from now on.
I can also see beyond it, I think.
Good art does that. For example yesterday I opened a similar message from Victoria https://artandtheology.org/2022/07/11/miracles-by-walt-whitman/ I keep forgetting about miracles. And how they announce, sometimes loudly, sometimes in the more quiet voices of art, the presence of God.
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Is the moon the grandmother?
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Yes!
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I know how the moon feels. Ha ha ha. 😉
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There’s something very appealing about this little poem. Maybe because I always look for the moon before I go to bed and because of the many cloudy days we have, the days when I do get to see the moon are special.
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