Micro poems for a sacred moon.
The sacred moon was making the stones in the path more alive by the moment.
Treading them was an encounter.
Who was I to say who trod and who was trodden on?
I trod the sacred moon.
Sister, I spoke to the moon, you are clothed in rain.
You are its hat, and it is your coat,
and I beneath you am naked.
The mind is mute.
The shine of the moon is attracting
an ethereal tornado of stars.
The earths and the stars, and the moons were ours.
We were shining and darkening in a common rhythm,
and the springs were open, my love, and we were drinking from them.
You continued my life.
Before sunset, the crown of this walnut tree
was revolving in the sky as an earth,
and I was the moon.