Pregnant with the heirs of lost loves,
Swollen with the sorrow of untold sacrifice,
The full moon sang a sad song of memory,
Resonant with remembrance.
Bright Clear True
Shimmering Moonsong
Riding rivery pearls
Across a crest of clouds
(White foam-tipped feathers
Wrapt in dark curling blankets)
Racing in rapture
To kiss at the far horizon
Her sister
The virginal sea
It was a sad song of memory the moon sang,
Sounding through the empty and hollow sky,
Her whispery hum answered only by the laconic
pound pound pound
of the booming surf.
It was a sad song of memory the moon sang.
It rang in ears not meant for hearing.
It penetrated to the highest heights.
It echoed in the dark room.
It was a light, a hope for all.
Did he ever understand?
Or did he throw it all away?
It was a sad song of memory the moon sang.
To take one's past life, to take all of it,
Hold all of it in mind - yet to be free of it,
beyond hope, beyond all that will be said and done,
beyond beyonds -
to move in conscious harmony with God's expression,
to express perfectly all that is divine.
It was a sad song, to be sure.
But neither the moon nor her consort
are ever really alone.
They have each other.