The silver moon is set
in harvests unseen, the pleiades
rush home across half the night
though the night is never spent
i lie alone, with sappho
ready to bridge fragments
of my human body-shell divine
The golden moon is set
in harvests unseen, o queen of songs
voiceful, with the heart’s wild cry
storm-tossed I gather spirit
across the all-unattainable hope
that heaven’s empyreal blue
will never be fully lost, always recoverable
in some future where the moon
hangs low and love’s feet brush dew
across a soft-cushioned bed where
i rise a pillar of light, where my
descendants regard across fields
on planets with many moons!
Seshat Nibada
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mid-autumn-moon-festival/
