COUNTING MOONS
The moon tonight gliding through the eye of the Bull.
On the horizon light is still holding,
And thrushes, too full of Spring to sleep,
Echo song across the valley.
Why should I record this?
One day among many.
Nothing remarkable
In this new season’s freshness
( except our own common forgetfulness
Lost in weighted, judged moments).
I could give you a year of moons,
Some seen, some clouded, some serene or dreadful,
Meticulously recorded, patinated silver,
Its light cold, warm, diffuse, reticulated.
Its shape swinging this way then that,
Its rising between house and tree, hill and hedge.
Its mirror face reflecting clearly every tide of passion and despair,
Its mirror face pulling eye and heart to hold all souls aloof,
Quietly cooling, pulse and breath shifting, shivering slightly,
As if a gong brushed by a breeze, sounding sounding low.
A pool, silent.
A way in and a way out.
A door, a window, swinging open, slamming shut.
Lightening, darkening, reasonably equinanimous.
Unconcerned, ineffable, a mouth trying out new sounds,
Consonant and vowel shaping words that all mean silence,
That all mean liquid, that all mean holding, pouring, filling, emptying.
Just now, I can think of nothing more full of satisfaction,
Nothing more worthwhile,
Absolute evidence of time well spent,
Dutifully attentive, a garland for creation’s gifts,
Harmless, meaningless, a simple offering,
A counting of breaths, proof of life.
—
simonhlilly 