Waning Crescent Moon
Slim sickle, icy horns of the divine bull. She is hollowed out as she shades night by night and day by day towards death that beckons her. She rises closer and closer to the dawn, slower to head out into the darkness at night, aching to be closer to the warmth of the sun. She loses herself in the sunlight as her own light ebbs away, streaming away into the celestial night.
She becomes the crone, the hag of the stars, that holds her death inside herself, inside her slim and thinning embrace. She is dignified as she dances with death, greeting it openly and lovingly, releasing herself into nothingness. She is a sickle that reaps the old, to allow us to drift into fallowness.
Please show us, Grandmother Moon, show us how to embrace the night that sweeps in and leads us into the deep velvety darkness, to feel it as fertile earth that will bring forth new life as our old self decays, and nourishes what is soon to arrive. You haunt dreams, even as we dream when you lay below the horizon, promising an ending, but the true secret is that the ending is really a beginning. This truth allows us to let go, even when we long to cling on, when fear at the emptiness fills our hearts.
We cannot stop time, and nor should we wish to, for as we flow we move around the spiral. We find ourselves in the same place again, but further up or deeper in. Your bright crescent encloses us as we melt into the silver shadows and darkness.
