Moon Speak
Now in the middle of the limpid evening the moon speaks clearly to the hill
—Thomas Merton
All night, Moon speaks to the hills as we sleep carelessly
swimming through the long dark in crystalline lakes of our dreams.
We breathe our silences hour by hour as Moon gives up her secrets
to the foothills stretched around and through November days.
Some houses never go dark or silent. But ours tonight has only one dim lamp.
The wind blows over the aching earth, over the breathing sandstone memories,
the restless granite boulders. Turning to the dark hills, Moon begins her long sonorous monologue as we ease ourselves again into the dreaming waters.
Just this morning, I let my eyes wander to a crested ridge where the cattle walked
as royalty upon the crown following some unseen track.
I kept to low valleys, the straightest paths where chipping sparrows winter over
in tall brown weeds and poke berry freezes on its fading claret stalk.
And Moon, of what are you speaking tonight? Apollo’s fire? The applause of trees?
The river course? Exulting seas? The comparable weight of mercy to desire?
A hard rain falls intractably through the cold branches of gesturing trees.
I promise myself I will listen (but, a distraction--a moth at the window).
Moon makes a brief suggestion, calls up for me one half-forgotten promise,
the opening line of some lost conversation . . .
