Moonday. Waning moon. Rain. Despite having meetings and things, I'm treating this day as a poem. Its all poetry from my ink blueberry smoothie to the "garbage truck's baptismal drizzle" on the street outside. (That phrase is by Audre Lorde.) I have no choice in the matter.
Prose won't come.
I'm humming inside mystery.
In love with luck-bringing Hermes.
He's taken me through the underworld again.
He's stolen Apollo's cattle again.
He's raced through my life on his badass sandals, beat the turtle drum, and cozened my tribe throughout the dark night. Again.
His snakes wrap around the inside of my skin to heal a long pain, the kind you can almost forget until you look in the mirror he made to remind you.
Oh Hermes, beloved son of the son of Time and the shy goddess Maia, I'm a muse or a fury running behind you. I'm a child in your cave hiding in sight. Catch me if you want to tonight.
For this Moonday, tell me something, anything-- in the form of a poem. It doesn't have to make any sense and might be best if it does not. If that's daunting, just give me three words that you like because of the way they sound.