The High Priestess

The Moon keeps her own hours today, and you are lit by that borrowed silver rather than by noon. Something in you already knows — not as argument, but as weather felt in the joints before the sky changes. The gift is accuracy without evidence: a pull toward the right room, the right silence, the sentence you decide not to say. The cost is that no one can verify it for you, and you may be asked to hold the knowing alone, unwitnessed, a little longer than comfort allows. Let the veil stay drawn where it is drawn. Not everything ripe should be picked before dusk.

The Moon rides behind cloud today, and something in you speaks from beneath it — quieter than the noise you have agreed to live inside. Reversed, the veil is not lifted but pressed against; the knowing is there, muffled, having been talked over so often it has learned to whisper. Today inclines you to notice the muffling. A secret held too long begins to change temperature; a certainty you keep explaining away asks only to be heard once, unedited. The gift is that the water is still yours. The cost is silence — you may have to disappoint someone to end it.