Last week, when I was walking under a snarling wolf moon, I was happy to be in the light of its canine humor. It loomed large and feral, and I was content.
But after I had walked some distance, when I had crossed several depthless streets, I noticed something else. Something sweet and stunning, yet quite invisible. It was a perfume, so strong and close, I thought Mdme. Chanel was near – wafting the pretty mathematics of No. 5 under my nose.
But I did not see the moist gleam of her pearls. I did not see her figure – thin and elite, exclusively Parisian – at my side. I was alone.
I stopped. I walked back, and breathed deeply. The perfume I wear daily had quite worn away; my skin had shrugged off the artificial pear blossoms – its light annoyance – hours ago. No, it wasn't me.
But I soon did discover the source of the surprising scent. I saw them in shadows: long stalks, ending in cupped petals that held a cologne escaping into the grateful air. Flowers, of course. But I did not expect botany's unseen grace to endure into the night.
Maybe the moon is an explanation. After all, the tides have always yearned for her. Their maritime desire travels through space and spins through galaxies, before becoming caught in her axis. Maybe the scents of a garden undergo the same tortuous journey: traveling by night in scented currents, following a starry map.
Perhaps the flowers that bloom at night simply can't help it. Perhaps the longings that live deep within their chlorophyll flesh are lifted into the sky, before they are woven into the fabric of a distant, coveteous constellation.