I

The darkness tells no lies,
outruns our eyes,
yet sings of light,

in its song the notes
of stars, the moon above
the distant mountains.

II

The window frames
the darkness. I
open and listen.

In the moonlight shadows
gather beneath the trees,
beckoning me to come
and join their dancing.

III

There’s a moon rising
in my dreams, searching for
that look in your eyes.
Are you dreaming of me?

IV

When you smile, the moon
turns its face away.

There’s another song
behind these words,

the night alive, a wind
that sighs for us all.

V

Her gift her fire dying in my arms,
her body rising until nothing
but the bloom of sighing
herself to sleep and flying.

VI

The moon hangs
in the trees, the wind
weaving the leaves
into a shroud. 

We dig in the dirt,
finding roots,
seashells, and bones
that are our own. 

VII

The night brings 
word of you falling 
with the rain, you 
asleep beside me
safe at home,
morning blues
softly playing.

VIII

I walk along the spinning
shore, the moon, a wheel
of a thousand nights.
We shared a dream
of another life,
you here with me
in the dying light.

IX

As I sit here writing tonight at my desk, I am on the river and see myself in the flow of things . . . the sounds of water, bird and wind are my voice, and all my senses are alive, the stars looking through my eyes . . . I breathe the night . . . Orion, Aldebaran, and Procyon crown my head . . . and there you are, musa, luna puella, your body curving and folding in the current, laughing and calling me to dive with you beneath the waves and lose myself, these words nothing but the falling rain.

X

for Maya

I want words to breathe like I do, weep and bruise.

I want words to dream and remember those dreams that first set me on this path.

I want words to grow old with me and become the lines in my face and tell me old stories that keep my stumbling spirit from falling and new ones that tell of love forever young and freely given.

I want words of no regret, even for the sorry waste of all I have left undone.

I want words to hold up a mirror and see all who have gone hand in hand with me through this life, as old and young as the morning.

O that words would fall like these tears and mark the page in silver and gold, though I be nothing but the sound the restless wind makes at night, the wind that sweeps down the mountain, past all the houses of the dead, and, gathering up all lost souls, now remembered.