Tonight is the full Hunger Moon.
February is my least favorite month of the year, and this year we get an extra day of it. And even though it's still the shortest month of the year, it seems like the longest. All of the Christmas lights are down, and even though the daylight last a few minutes longer it still gets dark by six.
I'm hungry for spring. Hungry for flowers and green leaves and the promise of warmth in the breeze and longer days when I don't have to think about when to leave work so that I can walk home from the bus stop in daylight.
I'm hungry for that light. I'm simply happier when it's light and I can turn my face to the sun and soak it in. I love the moon, it's true; it pulls me into its mystery as it waxes and wanes. But the sun, oh the sun! I crave it.
Maybe I'm just hungry for dinner. I'll go fix some. Hmm. Joe's at work, so what shall I have? Leftover pizza? Reheated chicken? The rest of the spaghetti and meat sauce? (I dare not call it "Bolognese;" our friend Vince would smite me.) Chicken, I think -- and a nice glass of wine.