“When the Moonstruck Speak”—Autumn Sky Poetry
He turns toward light
and suddenly moon is sleeping in his mouth
as if in a cave at night
somewhere warm and south.
He is the cave voice
and I just an echo,
the water lapping, the wind shouting to be close:
all speaking, but none managing to glow.
I, too, had a cave mouth once
hidden depths of bouncing sound, brought down
not by rocks but the gentler touch
of water rising above where it crowned
(there are many ways
to drown sound waves,
and not all of them are loud).
