Eel

A black eel emerges from the shadow’s mouth
quickly, as it searches for a sunbeam,
something ephemeral,
something which carries the crescent moon
as though it were chalk
scratched against the slate-black sky,
leaving behind an unspeakable cry of longing,
to which you can’t respond,
but find yourself worshipping.

The eel does not return.
It is now, too, the shadow,
the silent witness who forgets how to question
why trees always ache for the sky.

Sail

I think I rigged the sail
to stern instead of bow
so that old time’s flow
blows us back instead of front
and all I thought would grow
I’m ashamed to witness shrink
and shrivel and curl back again
to the unsteady footing
that everything felt when
the whole was built anew
on that starless night
before the rain learned to sing
when nothing was certain
and up could’ve been down
if not for the calming hand
which told us not to worry
since each would play its role
for the jumble to resolve
into threads on the wall
which alone would shiver naked
but together weave into a quickened sheet
that slides into my hands
so clearly made to hold
the sail I come to understand
has traveled all this way again
in case a second try’s enough
to let me rig it right.

Moon

No better place to listen than just-off-center on the dark lake. Half-faced and full-flushed stands the moon, distant as ever. I know that I’m floating but I start to forget where from and where to. I remember that direction had to be invented, like time and words.

But there’s that great moon. Squiggles of off-white light dance in the soft ripples. I start to get the feeling that I’m in the right place at the right time. I look up and think about what I would say if I could speak.

“Hello,” I say, “I’ve come here to worship. I hope you don’t mind.”

Old moon never was much to talk. So I listen to the bugs instead. And the splash of a merganser taking a plunge. There’s the murmuring of leaves and the distant chatter of my own kind. Between the nearby flickers of moonbeams and the far-off solidity of its weight on the lake lies a dark gap unclaimed by any light. I wonder about what you might be able to fit through that brief opening. Big things like ships and small things like wishes.

Piercing through the surface is the hollow call of the loon. Why so mournful, why so dear? The moment arrives at completion and if I squint hard enough I start to hear the echo of the cry against the moon. Emerging from my waxing faith strikes the sphere’s old query:

“Have you found what you were seeking? You’ve been searching for so long…”

Not even the fish notice as I bow and start to weep.

Spot

I spent ages looking for a spot –
circling the lake, following the stream –
but never found one just right,
where a breeze blew just so
and the sun always shone –
Then I took all the spots I’d tried,
and started looking between them,
in the nooks I’d overlooked
and glades I’d laid aside –
til I found the spot between all the others,
with the light suspended as I least expected,
and I settled in to rest my bones
and watch the turning sky.

Snow

Go see many things,
so you learn there’s none better
than watching snow fall.