a full moon meeting with Sybylla, for the Writer's Cramp
It was just a day in April, but it is the night of the pink full moon.
In Naples, the tababouia trees are blossoming with their golden flowers and, as always, the neon bougainvillea, splashy with amethyst and ruby blooms.
As the full moon rises I go to the pond's edge, this man-made retention pond, and I am serenaded by frog song and bathed in the glow of reflected television light.
I fall deeply into this night, in this time of pandemic, and think that Death is just a fall into the Great Night.
Sybylla, my mermaid, my psychopomp surfaces. I am masked as she is veiled. She came to this pond to escape the Gulf's toxic algae and now there is this air-borne virus. She does not know if creatures like her are vulnerable to this new threat.
She doesn't speak tonight but circles and circles, creating labyrinths within labyrinths on the water's surface.
I enter the spirals and sense land mass changes through the ages and see teachers that work with the Other Side. How many turnings and patterns can I float in at once? Deep in my heart I hear and feel the pull of the sea.
I place palm fronds at the water's edge, an homage to a deferred Palm Sunday. Sybylla lifts the fronds and swims back to the depths.
May resurrection come to us all.