Winter Moon

Blackness and silence, that is where she rises,
Sylvia, you knew the moon too well.
Well of illusion, misguided dreams; old virgin appearing in white
she is barren, dry, bald-
Stolen light is borrowed beauty.
How can she be Lake of the gods,
She’s a mirror, she confounds, bewilders, dazzles and deceives.

What is a lover to her but a fool– You know what is said,
the lover, the lunatic share one bed–
A memory of sunlight, a fantasy in the way of her bright emptiness,
that is what love is to an old, envious maid.
I’ll not look on her again easily,
how can I and not recall
up over the white shoulder of a windy hill in icy air

She unveiled her face to me– I, whom she’d driven to despair,
cried a name she would never hear.

 

19118

On Mt. Sorak, Korea

I have seen them before like this
with the sky so close
it seems to touch
the glaze of ice and snow,
I have seen them
lifting limbs
as if to take and hold
a star on every branch,
but not in so odd a light:
lulled by wind
into a cold dream of sleep
as though the moon
conspired with the peaks
to shine nowhere else tonight
but here, to show
they are the stars
as they are the earth,
this one place
is all the universe
made brighter by the white birch.

 

aspen_tree_painting_abstract_landscape_birch_trees_dancing_in_the_moonlight_winter_aspens_2017_series_by_colorado_contemporary_landscape_artist_kimber

On Mt. Sorak, Korea first printed in “Origins, Arrivals, Departures” 1995