They tell you the moon is cold, if you read the studies.
It’s just some kind of silt made of shredded stars and forgotten planets burnished and abraded by cosmic winds without any feeling at all. It is purely accident, a slip of a cartoonist’s pen, that causes us to see things that don’t exist.
Man, Goddess, pick one, or pick both. It may pull the tides, it may make women crazy and men confused, but it is, in fact,
scientifically proven to be genderless:
the moon is an It.
Tell that to the Redwood and the Elm, Cedar, Spruce, their ink-black armature against the hyacinth sky designed to curtain the clouds and moon in courtship.
Knowing that last month’s Janus-faced equivocations had slipped into history and that now was unequivocally coming; seeing the tulip break from its monotonous green gloves and say (this very day,) Red, the Gardener knew the situation was urgent. [Read more…]