I.

No one knows
light
like the moon
though she has none
of her own. She
bathes in it
morning after
mourning
a soak of soft
water colors
petals bleeding on
sky, gifts from a
long-distance
lover she will never
meet for at the
birth of each day
the moon waves
goodbye. And at
dusk she repeats,
strophic, unending,
stolen
sun-songs.

II.

Born out of the
restless fog
of daydreams
and moonbeams
it manifests slowly:
backwards,
inside out,
materializing
from mist and
breath and
thought.
This song is
visible, a
plush glow like
velvet, rabbit fur
soft and gentler than
a lover’s
touch.

III.

Here there is something
old
old and quiet
sleeping
in peaceful
day, light
both it’s cocoon
and nectar
dripping
steadfast from
golden leaves.