How to Build a Moon Garden When the News Is All Horror
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Current Issue
Poems
/ February 10, 2026
How to Build a Moon Garden When the News Is All Horror
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
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This article appears in the
March 2026 issue.
To see where the moon melts over the garden,
or where the bats flit, or where the air sweetens
with pollen and moth-frenzy, I recommend
a night walk to discern the perfect patch for it.
Under this glow, we could all use a distraction—
dig with a silver shovel and choose colors that swoon
and moan under our satellite: dusty pinks,
baby blue, lavender, white, and butter yellow gems
unfurl at dusk until dawn. Sometimes moonflower
vining over trellis looks like a waterfall
out of the corner of your eye. So many to choose from:
evening primrose, night-blooming jasmine, heliotrope,
tuberose, 4 o’clocks, lambs’ ear, astilbe, calla lily, white clematis,
fairy candles, periwinkles, and you can even launch snowballs
in summer with creamy oak hydrangeas. Turn off the hiss
and whirr from man-made lights and walk the night,
walk the grass, the fence line, let your boot crackle over
pebble and stick bits. Careful if skunks shuffle over to see what
all the fuss is about. Don’t tussle with weeds. If you set
your shovel down, skunks won’t bother you at all.
And on the off chance they do, at least the spray might
sizzle like stars. Bats swoop and fly erratic, but birds
glide between wing flap—that’s how you can tell what
flutters across a lake moon. If you make a moon garden,
even the dark lapping of water under a duck-shush of wave
won’t be louder than the silver in your own bright yard.
Keep Reading
Submit a correction
Send a letter to the editor
Reprints & permissions
Your support makes stories like this possible
From Minneapolis to Venezuela, from Gaza to Washington, DC, this is a time of staggering chaos, cruelty, and violence.
Unlike other publications that parrot the views of authoritarians, billionaires, and corporations, The Nation publishes stories that hold the powerful to account and center the communities too often denied a voice in the national media—stories like the one you’ve just read.
Each day, our journalism cuts through lies and distortions, contextualizes the developments reshaping politics around the globe, and advances progressive ideas that oxygenate our movements and instigate change in the halls of power.
This independent journalism is only possible with the support of our readers. If you want to see more urgent coverage like this, please donate to The Nation today.
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
More from The Nation
Rome, take your amethyst back
Rome, take your …
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Current Issue
Poems
/ February 10, 2026
How to Build a Moon Garden When the News Is All Horror
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Share
Copy Link
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Ad Policy
This article appears in the
March 2026 issue.
To see where the moon melts over the garden,
or where the bats flit, or where the air sweetens
with pollen and moth-frenzy, I recommend
a night walk to discern the perfect patch for it.
Under this glow, we could all use a distraction—
dig with a silver shovel and choose colors that swoon
and moan under our satellite: dusty pinks,
baby blue, lavender, white, and butter yellow gems
unfurl at dusk until dawn. Sometimes moonflower
vining over trellis looks like a waterfall
out of the corner of your eye. So many to choose from:
evening primrose, night-blooming jasmine, heliotrope,
tuberose, 4 o’clocks, lambs’ ear, astilbe, calla lily, white clematis,
fairy candles, periwinkles, and you can even launch snowballs
in summer with creamy oak hydrangeas. Turn off the hiss
and whirr from man-made lights and walk the night,
walk the grass, the fence line, let your boot crackle over
pebble and stick bits. Careful if skunks shuffle over to see what
all the fuss is about. Don’t tussle with weeds. If you set
your shovel down, skunks won’t bother you at all.
And on the off chance they do, at least the spray might
sizzle like stars. Bats swoop and fly erratic, but birds
glide between wing flap—that’s how you can tell what
flutters across a lake moon. If you make a moon garden,
even the dark lapping of water under a duck-shush of wave
won’t be louder than the silver in your own bright yard.
Keep Reading
Submit a correction
Send a letter to the editor
Reprints & permissions
Your support makes stories like this possible
From Minneapolis to Venezuela, from Gaza to Washington, DC, this is a time of staggering chaos, cruelty, and violence.
Unlike other publications that parrot the views of authoritarians, billionaires, and corporations, The Nation publishes stories that hold the powerful to account and center the communities too often denied a voice in the national media—stories like the one you’ve just read.
Each day, our journalism cuts through lies and distortions, contextualizes the developments reshaping politics around the globe, and advances progressive ideas that oxygenate our movements and instigate change in the halls of power.
This independent journalism is only possible with the support of our readers. If you want to see more urgent coverage like this, please donate to The Nation today.
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
More from The Nation
Rome, take your amethyst back
Rome, take your …
How to Build a Moon Garden When the News Is All Horror
The headline tells the story.
Log In
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Password *
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Forgot Your Password?
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How to Build a Moon Garden When the News Is All Horror
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Subscribe
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Magazine
Latest
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Politics
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Culture
Books & the Arts
The Nation
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Current Issue
Poems
/ February 10, 2026
How to Build a Moon Garden When the News Is All Horror
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Share
Copy Link
Facebook
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Email
Ad Policy
This article appears in the
March 2026 issue.
To see where the moon melts over the garden,
or where the bats flit, or where the air sweetens
with pollen and moth-frenzy, I recommend
a night walk to discern the perfect patch for it.
Under this glow, we could all use a distraction—
dig with a silver shovel and choose colors that swoon
and moan under our satellite: dusty pinks,
baby blue, lavender, white, and butter yellow gems
unfurl at dusk until dawn. Sometimes moonflower
vining over trellis looks like a waterfall
out of the corner of your eye. So many to choose from:
evening primrose, night-blooming jasmine, heliotrope,
tuberose, 4 o’clocks, lambs’ ear, astilbe, calla lily, white clematis,
fairy candles, periwinkles, and you can even launch snowballs
in summer with creamy oak hydrangeas. Turn off the hiss
and whirr from man-made lights and walk the night,
walk the grass, the fence line, let your boot crackle over
pebble and stick bits. Careful if skunks shuffle over to see what
all the fuss is about. Don’t tussle with weeds. If you set
your shovel down, skunks won’t bother you at all.
And on the off chance they do, at least the spray might
sizzle like stars. Bats swoop and fly erratic, but birds
glide between wing flap—that’s how you can tell what
flutters across a lake moon. If you make a moon garden,
even the dark lapping of water under a duck-shush of wave
won’t be louder than the silver in your own bright yard.
Keep Reading
Submit a correction
Send a letter to the editor
Reprints & permissions
Your support makes stories like this possible
From Minneapolis to Venezuela, from Gaza to Washington, DC, this is a time of staggering chaos, cruelty, and violence.
Unlike other publications that parrot the views of authoritarians, billionaires, and corporations, The Nation publishes stories that hold the powerful to account and center the communities too often denied a voice in the national media—stories like the one you’ve just read.
Each day, our journalism cuts through lies and distortions, contextualizes the developments reshaping politics around the globe, and advances progressive ideas that oxygenate our movements and instigate change in the halls of power.
This independent journalism is only possible with the support of our readers. If you want to see more urgent coverage like this, please donate to The Nation today.
Aimee Nezhukumatathil
More from The Nation
Rome, take your amethyst back
Rome, take your …
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