Like the Moon
entire, even in shadow
and storm, obscured
when hung like a rim of ice
from a glass
bowl, reflecting
all the light there is
or will be
surgical, meaning precise and steady
drawing each molecule in
every liquid phase
closer
without fuss or drama
or even recognized
as being so
cyclical, in force and appearance
like seasons are
not rivals
gravity not the
enemy
time never in
opposition, but
mysterious, as the path
traced in mountain and valley
wave and spruce needle
a light
fluent, colorless, untrackable
streaming across meadow to kiss
even the mouse’s ear
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