There are seasons that sweep through so swiftly and briefly, that were it not for the imprint they leave, we might not notice them at all. Like the cold winds of spring as it shakes off winter, the last kiss of a season passing. They arrive just long enough to wish us well. This was the feel of our dynamic.

Selene was an aberration, we met at a crossroads nestled in the hills of wine country; surrounded by the gnarled stalwart figures of sequoias. Their silent gaze kept watch over us in the way that those older spirits survey such momentary beings.. Amidst the soul-gazing and laughter of new friends from around the world, Selene and I found a language.

It was one that neither of us had spoken and we intimated things that could not have been said in our native tongues. We had not the words. Nor had we found the ears that would receive them. This language would be ours and ours alone.

So caught off guard was I that, in a moment of caring, I slipped into passion. Twice as surprised when she joined me there, I was at once off balance and enraptured to find us dancing. Our shifting and swaying gave movement and form to our breath. Our joining in the heat of the moment retold tales as old as the sun-weathered earth on which we danced. Tales of lovers and friends, companions and strangers; the kind of tale told only in languages known to the night.

I can still hear her whisper.

We parted at the crossroads, Selene left me with a trinket to remember her by and I left her with a song.

Only a few full moons later, I can still feel her in my hands when I absentmindedly find myself fingering the trinket that hangs about my neck. Is it wrong of me to hold on to the promise of lovers, etched into a night sky and watched over by sequoias and angels?

Now I think of Selene every time the moon ascends her nightly escalier and gazes lovingly down on witches and and lovers and earnest hearts below. The cold spring wind rushes in and I confess, I don’t purport to know where it came from or why it left. I am a simple poet, a mere recounter of stories, I dare not presume to explain this dance. Some things are too sacred for explanations. Too tender to be anything but held and cherished and then remembered.

There are seasons that sweep through so swiftly and briefly, that were it not for the imprint they leave, we might not notice them at all. Like the cold winds of spring as it shakes off winter, the last kiss of a season passing. They arrive just long enough to wish us well. So every time the moon sings its song to the thirsty ears of lovers and witches, and earnest hearts, I pause. And hear her whisper.