Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

The moon is all dust and memory—
a skin of ash, pocked and unbreathing.
No wind moves here.

Then—
over that quiet rim—
a color appears.

Not bright at first.
Just a curve of blue
lifting itself into the dark
as if it had somewhere to be.

From here, no borders.
No shouting.
No history loud enough to reach
this distance.

Only a small, turning sphere—
lit like a fragile flame
you’re afraid to lose.

The black around it does not care.
It does not notice the blue,
or the thin veil of air
holding every voice that ever called a name.

And yet—
there it is.

Home,
not beneath our feet
but rising,
as if it could slip away
if we did not see it
clearly,
all at once.