The one in my backyard, the moon’s
pregnant face inching each night
into her roundest form,

preparing to spit out baby stars,
before shrinking back to her
slender self, then disappearing

before starting her cycle again.
Here in my city yard I see few stars,
must content myself with a

downward gaze at the
moonshadowed sycamore’s
leaves dancing on the grass,

yellowing daily as the days
grow hotter, but now feels lush
and damp under my bare feet.

I have padded out here looking
for a black cat in the night
who is happily hiding,

in no mood to come in,
though we are approaching
a new day. I whisper his name,

get only a slight swish of leaves
in answer. But here, on this summer
night, this instant that will not

be like the next, much less
the next hour, the next night,
something compels me to stand

in the quiet and allow mystery
to soak in, momentarily
giving up the questions

without answers, no matter
how much I want them,
breathing into what is given.

A swish of cat tail against
my calf startles me back
into my body, and I bend

to pat what I cannot truly see,
then straighten and blink
at the brightness piercing

the dense canopy overhead.
Then I head back into the place
that I think of as my life,

where I will continue to practice
trust, having faith that, no matter
where I go, love in all its forms

is never far behind.

•••

(for beloveds afar—
Michael and Alison and Rose)