Orange Moon and tights

It was there through the window when I went into my studio just after waking. I go in there to get some matches for my candles that I light in both my bathroom and bedroom every morning, scissors to snip the wicks and to charge my phone. It always takes me by surprise, for so often there is cloud and I don’t see it. It wasn’t full but three-quarters and huge. And orange. A Harvest Moon perhaps? In the past people would have known these things. Counting on them, being guided by them. We have lost such knowing. But the wonder is still there, the awe. I felt it, at least.

Mary Oliver spoke of stillness before I slept.

I dreamt of many things, lastly of a pair of tights, a gift. They had velvet tops and extremely sheer nylon legs that were concertinaed up so at first I thought that they would be too short. They came in a leather pouch with a little pot of leather polish (did I think in my dream that they were boots) and a tiny brush, there was also a little sachet with nail files and clippers. It had been a present. It was the detail, the way I was studying these things as a child would, each new surprise, a delight.