Talk to me, brother moon

Talk to me,
     brother moon.

I cannot be another moon

I am a tree and a forest of trees
I am an oak; I have acorns and robins
My twig-fingers, roots and limbs,
     seedlings and saplings and sap-boned friends
     generate their noisy green all day

All day I am bedecked and bespangled by sister sun
Her fluff-clouds muffle me, fuzz me, obscure me,
     then blow me bare
Her thousands of cameras regard me,
     blinking their lizardskin shutters
     again and again
     and again

So find me,
     brother moon.

When all the breathless butterflies
     have fallen from their worn-out wings

When the busy squirrels are still in their hollows
     dreaming their consumer dreams

When the squeaking beaks are voiceless
     before the voice of the dark,
and their peacock-in-paradise fashions
     are black & white like the rest

Look at me,
     brother moon.

I cannot be another moon
     and one moon
     is enough

When the night is glassy and damp
When the wind is stilled to a moth’s breath
and the moths with their grey-flannel dignity repose
     on my well-wrapped trunk

When the odd owls
     signal and silently hunt
When the wolves bring out
     their clear eyes
When the ghosts of things are apparent,
     the truths of things,
     the feral amoral open mouths
     of things

Limn me,
     brother moon.

I will inhale your lupine light,
taste its plain taste, like deep-cave water

and shiver these starry shivers
and gleam this wyrd gleam

and sing this mossy song I have kept for you.