These nights, rising softly from my solid bed,
I leave you to your even rise and fall
and pillowed burrowing in dreams
to follow the moon’s long reach
that gleams along the grass and mutes
the nighttime feel of cool dew crushing underfoot.
In the moongold glow, small creatures
sleek as seals swim across the dampened field,
startled from their peace by one that steals into their world.
They run, these families of skittish mice,
to hide among the garden vines, deciding
here or there to test a bite, and leaving ruined fruit
as if it has no use to them at all.
These nights, when I trade my solid bed
and the solid rise and fall of breath for cloudless skies,
I push into the moonshine meadow light, stealing
to the edges of the woods, searching
here and there for fruits to test,
and discarding pillowed dreams
as if they have no use to me at all.