The Moon and the Mountain

2021

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THE MOON AND THE MOUNTAIN By Maddalena Poleggi

Tonight, the moon entered the bedroom and painted a window on my pillow. It did not cast her light on the bedside table above the book of mountain stories that had captivated me. Nor did it settle on the adjacent bed, where the steady rhythm of deep sleep could be heard. The moonbeam shone straight onto my yielding face.

I sat up in bed, reluctant to leave the warmth of the blankets.
I saw it, full as it was, perfectly framed in the highest pane of the wooden window frame.
It shone through the curtain and waited quietly.

I silently left the room and opened the heavy door leading from the kitchen to a small lawn overlooking the Alps. I didn’t put on my shoes — if this was a dream, I wouldn’t need them — I thought, standing on the threshold.

There she was, in front of me, emanating a magical, absolute glow.
All around that perfect white circle, there was only night.
There was not even the slightest rustle or movement, only stardust falling slowly. 


I decided to step outside. Once I touched the damp lawn in my thin socks, I silenced the slight uneasiness that was the legitimate offspring of those strange small hours.
And now?
Suddenly, I had an intuition. Trepidatiously, I slowly turned my head.
I was looking for Mount Bersaio, which stood reassuringly motionless behind the little house that was hosting us, with its rugged profile.
It is a proud and photogenic mountain that I had admired for days, standing majestically against the blue alpine sky with intricate rocky paths developing into two distinct peaks, like sisters above a skirt of pine trees and undergrowth.

In the darkness, however, it had shed its picture-postcard appearance. Naked, it was an opalescent weave, revealing mineral tapestries illuminated by moonlight in every hidden recess.
My eyes were not big enough to contain its beauty.
No camera could capture its magic.

In that silence, the Moon and the Mountain conversed about ancient things.
Feeling small in their presence, I crouched down to listen, like a child who has overheard a conversation between adults and wants to steal secrets.
It is impossible to comprehend, but perhaps we can absorb words that may one day prove useful. And emotions that will never leave us.

Even the darkness around us sent out evocative messages.
I sighed softly, hoping that the spirits of the night would not play evil tricks on us. In truth, I was the only one disturbing that encounter. Even the wild animals had withdrawn to leave the moon and the mountain alone.

But perhaps the moon wanted a witness; otherwise, why would it have called me? Had it perhaps caught sight of my paintbrushes, brimming with dreams and desires?
That pure, delicate design; the absolute chiaroscuro; the symphony of mineral greys; the vibrations of the air and the stones. Perhaps all this deserved a storyteller or a painter.

Thank you, Moon, and forgive me if this is all I have in return:
Succinct human words and a sheet of white paper on which to write them.