There are times when I see the moon during the day,
a grey-white cloud like the dying blossom of a wild onion,
thin paper, peeled off, fragile and flickering and left behind in the dark autumn wind,
and I stare, feeling that this moon is better suited to my sorrows,
and I ask where I might find my night,
my late-sunset sea that holds on to colors like stars,
and perhaps, too, the feeling of plant-filled quietness thereafter,
and the steady glitterings of evening birds.
I stare up for a while longer
at the sun-bleached valleys,
until the moon falls low,
and we both continue to wander.