there’s a moon
on the pasture
hoarded by willows
who told of another
to balance the blues
silvery shades
of pewter and diamond
ripples regarded
as glass looking through

tis a world
of unraveled
the seeds from the soil
the wish from the falling
of stars all around
poetry plucked
from pointy black fingers
briars embracing
the blossom of sounds

meticulous verse
at the heart of our musing
pushed from these hands
to the soft folded wing
enchanted by story
of journey releasing –
words without rhyme
ten thousand to sing

as bark sets the future
of cider to winters
patterns to pass
from light years to why
there was more to the water
than drink for the pasture
a mirrored confession of love
for the night

. . .