White Moon
Have you seen the morning moon?
She is not the cold hung rock
that swings upon the noose of night
that one is a dead face
submerged in a sea of darkness.
No, that is not her,
she is a lovely woman,
but pale and wane is she.
She has labored nightlong
planting seeds of light
beneath the fertile earth;
the work has made her beautiful,
the work has brought her to
this ethereal transparency.
Look at her form, how it changes.
Once she rode the sailing clouds
clad in an adamantine silver,
she was fierce in her becoming,
her youthful unveiling,
but now the long night dies,
and she also must pass away
to where oceans are teardrops.
No, she is not the dead moon,
she is our ghostly guest,
reflecting the Beloved herself.
Admit her!
She waits at the step of dawn
though pale and wane
she is once more becoming
the bright translucency of every eye.
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