Once I was a new moon, unseen, hidden in the dark universe of my mother’s womb. As she fed on the sun, swallowing sunlight silently gathered by plants, I grew into a small sliver of a crescent moon – a mere curl of the girl I would be.
Waxing day by day, more of me could be seen – small hands, feet, and face slowly revealed from the soft tissue, while the bones, pliable as new twigs, lengthened. Mother hid her lunate shape until I increased and she felt my orbit. When I reached the first quarter phase, her belly mirrored me.
For some length of days, I waxed gibbous within and her universe expanded. She knew my time would come soon.
When she could eat no more light, I shone through her, a full moon making my own self visible.
We women belong to the moon, following her cycle through the sky, waxing and waning through our lives. In this way the world is born again and again.
I have waxed full in my spin around the world, and despite an empty universe of a womb, I have had two full moons orbit my life.
Now I wane, and this phase – my last quarter – is almost spent.
Once I was full of light, but now so much is hidden. I follow the path forward, shrinking my way home in the dark night under the starshine, In the early morning hours, curled upon my bed, a small crescent shape beneath the covers, I wait and wonder about that final phase when I am too new to be seen.
Photos courtesy of Jay Tanner on Creative Commons
year-struck 
