The moon descends.
Its light moves through
wisping clouds,
touching the bristling
rain-washed oak leaves.
It stops at the terrace wall
and inhabits a flowerpot.
Glinting, shimmering,
the moonface contained
in a puddle.
By day
the sun clamors,
but is scarcely noted:
loud voice
in a bright world,
unlike the moon.
In the flowerpot,
now dry,
a crack appears,
dirt surface broken open
by a red-green shoot.
Roots are certainly going.
Promise of leaves.
By night I am drawn
to the terrace again
and look to the sky
for the moon,
seeing none.
White globe uncurls
in my flowerpot:
pale brilliance of chrysanthemum.
The man-in-the-moon
steps out and presses
his cool soft petals
to my lips.
