The Meteor Shower

The poet is the child of the moon,
Reflecting all the living light the sun
In graciousness will not withhold. The loon
Can hardly sing a mournful song to one
Who wishes he could say what can’t be said
To those who in the sunlight can’t be fed.

 

I watch the sky to see the stars, to see

The dust and tiny meteors now streak—

Perhaps the stars will fall, or stay for me—

In colors of the fireflies I seek

Among the trees that partly block the moon.

I cannot dance. Perhaps I’ll see her soon.

 

The prophet always speaks in complex verse,

And so the sun in metaphors speaks true

To those who have the ears. I cannot curse

My gifts. I read the sky. Night’s almost through.

Perhaps there’s nothing left for me to see,

But I suspect the sun won’t set me free.

 

The lights are flickering. The fireflies

Are seeking mates. The falling stars are seeking

No one. Warmth, love and nothingness defies

The meaning which we make, are slowly leaking

Into the world where people meet—each verse

Brings greater life. Denial brings the hearse.

 

I listen to all the blue sun has said,

Reflect it like the moon and give the gift

The sun expected me to give. It led

Me, fed me, read me so that I could lift

In flickered patterns like the fireflies

The hazy messages where deep truth lies.

Ascent and Descent, Butterfly and Moth

The butterfly, as blue as sky, ascends
Into the sun, but does not fear to melt—
The moth, in pales green, flutters, descends
From off the moon, its body soft as felt. 

 

The shadows move from bright to dusk

The shadows move in gray

This body, moving, is a husk

Between the night and day.

 

The light and darkness, day and night, only seem to clash—

The moon reflects the sunlight to a moonbow made of ash.

 

Now, listen as the moths are flying

And smell the subtle scent

That brings them to the nectar lying

With sweetest truth that’s bent.

 

The butterflies descend and drink the sweet

Sun-warmed and ripened red persimmons—smell

Them as the rot upon the ground. The feet

Can taste them where they putrefy and fell.

 

Which life will you embrace?

Or will you trace 

Another through the trees

With dappled bees?

 

The light and darkness, day and night, only seem to clash—

The moon reflects the sunlight to a moonbow made of ash.

 

A sky of mist, a somewhere in between—

A cloud with sun, the seen and the unseen.

 

And though they drink at different hours,

They both are pollinating flowers.

The moth, the butterfly both mean

The same in all their pollen showers.

 

And both will drink the dew, 

And both will drink the tears—

And both will drink the juice,

And both relieve my fears.

 

The butterfly, as blue as sky, ascends

Into the sun, but does not fear to melt—

The moth, in pales green, flutters, descends

From off the moon, its body soft as felt. 

 

The light and darkness, day and night, only seem to clash—

The moon reflects the sunlight to a moonbow made of ash.