Ask the moon what her whispers mean—
dreamtime longing, the after-ache of shadows
that slide or slink, glide, or make us think
of what was–the ghosts of yearning
seek the light. I watch, and if I can’t recall
each pink-petaled spring or purple rain,
I see them all—the symphony that glows and lingers,
or hides in rustling wind-whipped sighs
and suspiration of the sea. Here I hear,
and time fast-stops, while the fiddler plays
the song of life, death, and all that is,
and what is not
but was or maybe what will be.
Listen hard and long . . . now do you see?
The Oracle kept giving me a few words over and over again, like moon, light, after, ache, whispers, etc. and I could imagine her getting exasperated and saying use these already!