Let us be true, truly be, let us be. That was the refrain I sang under the moon I lost some months ago. There it was at last, low above the trees, the trees black and still, the birds silent, only a car passing on the road behind me, not staying. I know this moment contains worlds, universes even, possibilities unheard of. This moment, then the next, and the one after that; I will count them out carefully. Thoreau says, "All change is a miracle to contemplate, a miracle happening every moment." The asters I planted on faith in April have bloomed so bluely, so proudly, so briefly. They are sighing now as they lie down in this October morning. I am counting now — No! I have ceased counting — to take this moment as itself complete, so full as the moon, which I had lost, now waning behind me.