She Heard Me Through the Clouds

Notes from the Hollow Bone  |  entry twenty-eight

It had been raining for days, the sky a thick gray curtain that hid every star. I hadn’t seen her in what felt like forever, and I didn’t realize how much I missed her until I whispered it out loud — “Mother Moon, please, just a moment.”

Tonight, she answered. I caught her light through my window, just a sliver, and I ran outside into the mud and chill like a child seeing an old friend. For a few precious minutes, the clouds parted, and she looked right at me.

I don’t know why it moved me the way it did — maybe it was the reminder that I’m still seen, still heard, even in the quiet. Maybe it was peace finding its way back home.

She Heard Me Through the Clouds

It had been days

since her face found the night—

rain swallowed the stars,

veiling her light.

The sky forgot its shimmered song,

and I forgot to what I belonged.

I missed her —

not as one misses a season,

but as a soul aches

without reason.

Last night, I whispered into the dark,

not knowing the unknowns that be.

I love the rain, Mother Moon,

but ache when it hides you from me.

A random peek past my window sill,

her light reflecting from beyond the hill.

The clouds pulled back—

just for a breath of time.

And in all the world,

she saw me, and she was mine.

Shoes pressing into softened earth,

I met her gaze and felt rebirth.

Her light brushed over every doubt,

and in that glow, I breathed it out.

Not healed, not whole, but here again—

the kind of peace that has no end.

Still here.

Still seen.

Still part of it all.

And that was enough—

for me, at nightfall.

With Grace & Ink,

Mai