Mushroom Moon

A poem about cycles, interconnectedness, and finding balance between endings and new beginnings

This poem came to me as I drifted off to sleep, contemplating the transition from August to September and the sudden speeding passage of the latter (seriously, how is it almost already over?).

I didn't want to risk forgetting the fragments that formed in my mind and rather than relying on memory, I hazily typed them into my Notes app. While short and sweet, I think it encompasses the swiftness of changing seasons and the parts we play, echoing the idea of oneness with the universe, where all distinctions dissolve.

Photo by Christina Deravedisian on Unsplash

If August is the month

Of the dying sun

Then September is the time

Of the mushroom moon

Where moss cushions our heels

Moonlight strokes our hair

And our souls dance

With our skeleton selves

As one

As none

As everything

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