Squandering Time

Here I am, squandering time.
The more I squander it,
the more generous it becomes.
Only last night I went out
to watch sliver moon
undress over the mountains while
inside the dirty dishes devoured the sink and
the bills tumbled off the counter.
The night deepened and I heard your voice,
a music welling from long ago:
"I am becoming more full",
you said, showing your new crescent-
Rising up as if you've never before revealed
your sensuous curves,
as if you never tire of shouting:
"Behold! Don't you see how
in millions of moons
I have not failed you?
How I return each time,
after days of total darkness,
to shed my soft light
on your blossoming heart?"

Dark of the Moon

Now it is the dark of the moon.
Some terrible sadness devours movement,
making my feet heavy with dread.
Still, I wander out into the night-
remembering how the swallows
migrate for thousands of miles,
without a guide.
I see Morning Star
a golden jewel beside the darkness
that holds the memory of new moon.

Raiment

The moon, hearing my cry,
called me outside.
What have you done with the moonbeams
I have given you?
she said, eyeing my empty basket.
I have scattered the moonbeams
on hopes and dreams. My basket
holds only broken songs
and all that has not begun.
And so I gave her my basket.
Then, all night we wandered together,
listening to the stars. The
dark lengthened into dawn,
and I woke up remembering my dream:
The moon stood in her white gown
on the other side of the door-
speaking softly.
She handed my basket
across the threshold.
I saw it covered in white cloth,
shining as if woven from moonlight.