We sit and we talk, not of much but of little.
I see the moon, the moon sees me.
I would smile but it would be meaningless.
I wouldn’t want it to be.
But in the landscape of tilted heads,
While the sky sheds skin on my body,
I feel my voice quiet to a halt,
And this is where I am.
You in this light feels new/woken,
Woven deep until the roots touch dryness,
Against the fallen limb of oaken.
This place speaks.
It says many things of nothing.
Makes no demands,
And offers no salvation.
Only repeats what you say in a way you’ve never heard it.
An echo off the far wall.
A reflection of your face.
I see the moon.
The moon sees me.