On the darkest nights you can find the moon
hiding in her right eye. The wolves will cry still
The iron ocean tides will fall and rise
and fall again- against opals and faint oyster pearls.

On most mornings her voice sounds
like water drifting
between the black stones.
Her oak palms, open and raw. Still, her fingertips
touch like the way raindrops drip
onto the smoked, burning ground.

And if you dare to love the way she loves
the trees will grab to the end of your sleeves
until they uproot. The sky painted in lilac
and copper evening clouds, spins until
your feet cannot help but lift
to the burning Aspyn skye.  

On your loneliest nights she will empty
herself, carve a hole in her chest and rock
your abandoned heart gently to sleep
and in the morning when you wake
you will wake with peace,
The moon wrapped around you,
the world spinning,
hearing nothing but the soft,
soothing, sound of water
drifting.