Walking on the Moon

There was no reason
I shouldn't walk by the lake,
where the geese glided, mystified
and silent, two by two,

across the face of the moon —
yet, I held back
to hear the wind
slip slyly through the branches.

The wind blows where it will.
It stirs the ancient waters;
angels dive through it cleanly,
parting the air like knives.

The full moon brings
the lonely and the mad 
to the surface of the world,
gasping for words and stroking for shore.

Were I to surface,
calling those with ears to hear,
I would cry out in all tongues,
"Watch! Learn! Do not rest!"

There are few leaves
on the trees just now.
Each one feels tied to place.
Soon each will be freed to drift — exultant! —
believing its pattern of falling to be flight.

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