Silver Lessons of the Night

showing how even in change darkness something gentle can still be powerful and enough.

The moon hangs quiet, a silver confession,
stitched into the dark like a promise half-kept.
She doesn’t shout her presence—
she waits,
knowing the night will eventually look up.

She wears her phases like memory:
whole when she can be,
broken when she must be,
never apologizing for either.
Even in pieces, she pulls the ocean closer,
reminding the world that softness still has power.

She listens to wolves, to wishes,
to the ache of people standing in windows
who don’t know what they’re longing for—
only that the moon understands it
without being told.

Some nights she is a wound,
others a lantern,
sometimes just a thin, brave curve of light
refusing to disappear.
And no matter how many times the dark tries to erase her,
she returns.

Faithful.
Changed.
Unashamed.

The moon teaches us this:
you don’t have to be full
to be enough.