Before sunrise I walk through
December’s darkness on a path
I know. Out against the wind,
a loop around the misted field,
then back into the swaying forest,
downed trees like dropped pencils,
stripped and careless and bare.

The moon is a caught kite;
I can reach it if I stretch.
I hold it above my head,
a cool disc giving no heat.

I have wanted this all my life.
Surely, I’m not the only one? See,
there are thumbprints all over it!

Li Po saw its white eye above the hills,
thought it was the bright heart of the sea.
It made him so happy he hummed songs
until the sun rose.

I give it back for the next one
and clap my hands, silver dust
drifting among the trees.