Full

Midnight, and the world brims
with messages just beyond consciousness.
The moon, behind the sycamore's soft spheres
gleams a brilliance that dims the stars,
paints rectangles on the kitchen floor,
casts my pen-hand's shadow
across an otherwise legible page.

I watch the moon, old window
cold against my forearms: small soul,
small planet, small satellite . . . vast space.
My mother's little cat with the moon
on her midnight chest, arks against my calves.
Her purr is cousin to the tree frogs' ascending songs,
another resonance of contentment.