Mi Amada

 

The Moon is sleeping

in a pool of rain water

dreaming of tides, solar winds,

and the last words you said last night, mi amada.

The crow wears his feathers

like an old man's overcoat

at a train station

in early December.

He wraps used alphabets

around the Moon in payment 

for memories,

some false, some bittersweet.

The crow will stay

as long as the Moon does.

The Moon will stay

forever, but often hidden.

The rain water

comes alive at a touch, 

receding even as it returns

in spite of itself or anything said last night, mi amada.

_______

For Sunday Muse #162