by Greg Gregory
The moon floats free in the summer sky.
It floats like a crystal egg.
It shines its bright river on a placid sea.
Its light illuminates the fleeting sand.
It makes us briefly moonlit.
It lights the soft waves that come in like luminous ghosts.
The waves are the singing of the moon.
The waves are the silver fruit of the moon.
The waves drift in without markers.
The waves weave their dissolving labyrinths.
The moon climbs a little higher.
The moon climbs into the night stars
like a watery round lake.
It becomes a moon of visions.
We become as those thrown into the stars,
as those thrown into the night sky,
as those thrown into the sea,
as those thrown into the moon.