Dark, dangerous woods,
Phases of the flashing moon,
Turning heads of owl.

One day gone in the long great forest
Of the ancient world, wolves alone
And mighty hungered with true kin
Stalking the tundras of the snow drifts
And all their prey, with cautionary eyes
Moved in heards and flocks swaying
With the sounds of the forest floor
And the spearing grasses.  The wolf
Was his own master, free, unbounded.
A great spirit, brother to the moon.

One dying day, when the bushes burned
They came upon the garbage dumps
Of early man.  Their smoke was laden
With the smell of fresh ****, small skins,
Animals, ended trail, and salted death.
Many wolves circled in fear, their pits,
Only one or a few tasted the left overs
The easy scraps and bones, tailings,
The elder pack would not stoop for.
These few unguarded wolves morphed
And mated with each other, their mane
And fur, soon was tamed, soon became
Mottled and brown no silver remaining.
This was the fall of the wolf, not man
And the moon turned white, when wolf
Became dog.

I drink in the sweet light
Of the honey coloured moon
as it floats high at midnight
hoping it doesn't leave soon

As I stare at the full moon
The world falls away
and I lose my peripheral vision
bathing in the moon's rays

Sliver beams of light
That reflects off the ocean
And seem to be too bright
to be moonshine

I began to see now
understand how
myths and legends
of the moon began

Egyptian, Aztec, Celtic and Greek
Khonsu, Metzli, Elatha and Artemis
And even poor Starveling
with his dog and thorn bush

All trying to capture the raw beauty
that is the moon and it's light
The rarest jewel of them all
Shining bright through out the night

But all attempts of personification
contain to much complication
to represent
to simplicity of the moon

So I'll stop trying to convey
what I can see
because no matter what I say
will not match what floats above the sea

Mirror, tears in eye,
Her picture by bed,
No light in night sky,
Even moon is silent.

The sea gulls— who fly in wanton
To the horizon, are a spirits
Calling, are sea songs falling
To my mind they falter— as I
Have known such cozen to the sun
That falls each day nor do I see
It rising.  My world is weighted,
Under, pass the lining of the quick,
By the mounted cloud which hangs silver
Over the plated night. The owl,
Whose eyes of Janus tails, when wanes
The lids, tied to crescent holey
Whelm of malevolent moon,

Praise over me, with wooly wings,
Is silent as shadow.  I may strut or run
But they do come as the shadows will
With cahooting sun, and the blotting
Bald faced moon, chiaroscuro—
The days feign and heaven pales under
The wake of the luna sea.

       In darkest daylight
I shamble toward the flat horizon
Where the seabirds fly, till their ends,
I take two-faced my faulty comfort
As I see them, falter, falling, yet never
Do they touch the gloaming ground.

Raven haired woman—
Bathes in lake with sinking moon,
Black swan drowning light.

Bright moon, perfect, full,
Her *******, unbound in starlight,
Heavens outnumbered.

I have seen her playing
With light, edging her hair,
In crescents so fair.

I have watched her fingers
Twirl and twine, beaming gold,
Threshing precious hold.

I have witnessed the taming
Of the sun's rays, captured,
Spinning in rapture.

And I feel for the pale moon
Who offers his frail, vestige light,
While she sleeps at night.

Wine, spinning, we dine,
Candles and moon making love,
.  .  .  Sparkle in her eyes.

Bed under full moon  .  .  .
Bodies bathed in cold flame,
  .  .  .  Old lover visiting.

In the moonless night,
Under sky of endless stars,
Ricebowl spills on floor.

Our time flicked with drops of summer,
The numberless nodes, mellow cicadas,
Pixelated a world swirling of music—
All dates, sweet tabulations of primes,

The savours swelling in fragrant breeze,
The still waters of pond mist and flame,
How your eyes, with mine, gazed into—
O sleepy windows of eyes being born,

Flowers made a bed and we drank it all,
The light of the sun as it passed in grace
And the birds sang songs of remembrance,
Water fell but once from mothering skies,

Wind whined, such days could never last,
One flesh of burgeoning— moon in the grass.

In cool light of heavy air,
The lovers worked at song,
Whittling the oak as it grew,
Wrapping time in knot, a gear
By the rounded dial of a snail,
Even the sun waltzed forgetful
And antique moon soon forgot
What it knew under wink of stars,
The field was all in hushed flame
As the new ant trails always were,
Saying in the grass that May, windy,
Is all we can know ever beneath trees
As they burst from breaking blue earth,
Will always, grasping, be this evergreen,
The lovers became here truly, new witness,
To themselves never more, but only this once,
Eternal, fresh, undivided, jewels of sun, divine.