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No Moon
In facing head-on the problem of the Romans neither depicting violet in their renditions of rainbows nor mentioning violet once in the totality if their surviving script, the simplest answer must indeed be granted due consideration. That violet, in Rome, in the early centuries, did not exist.
Against all odds, we find ourselves here. What circumstances conspired to make this moment together possible? What daughters and sons came through this world, what indignities were suffered and graces bestowed, what dynasties toppled and continents rose from seas, what stars bore their children in their incendiary bellies—and now us? How unlikely that we were even blessed with the opportunity to wake again on the morning of this day.
Of what are we the consequences? And the consequences of our actions—what of them? We suspect ourselves inconsequential. But some whisper of a time when what we did mattered. Mattered to the grandchildren as-yet unborn, mattered to the birds in their natal webs of sticks, mattered to the whales and the invisible ones and those gone before—mattered to the world. A time when it took a song and a tear to bring up the moon—and without that song and that tear: no moon.
Gratitudes blessed Universal Source, which among your manifestations birthed delight, pleasure, mirth, solidarity, friendship, and festivity, and which grew each of these two beings who feel stir within themselves an inferno of love. Let there soon be heard through the streets and over the countryside the rapturous cries from the marriage bed, the celebratory song of youth feasting upon each other’s light. Blessed is the joy of lovers in love with each other and in love with this world.
