Those who received news of the beginning
galaxies, the vast emptiness,
today are fossil light. beautiful paradoxes.
The moon that traveled with Cyrano de Bergerac;
the moon Quevedo clapped within a fine and bloody epitaph;
Lorca’s moon with its bustle of tuberoses, sinking into the forge; the haiku moon, unable to compete with a river rock’s
false gleaming. These moons are dearer and more familiar
than that lone moon hanging, solitary and perfect, like some invention of the night.
I wish to leave the world by its natural door;
In my tomb of green leaves
They are to carry me to die.
Do not put me in the dark
To die like a traitor;
I am good, and like a good thing
I will die with my face to the sun.
One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes –
some days guessing at the weather of our lives,
Some days giving thanks for a love that loves you back.
We head home: through the plum blush of dusk, but always—home, always under one sky.
And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop.
At every window, all of us facing stars.
Hope: a new constellation, waiting for us to map it,
Let us leave that heraldry,
water and thirst, tender and light, body and shroud.
Looks like you can teach an old …