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
