When the moon
is wet with the
tears
of its own shadow
the crescent of our
strawberry
moon missed
shines – the light
white mist from a
cracked fossil
and a nod, un fathom
able
until a nightingale’s
song
- this song flashes
through the litmus
paper thank you
rust to blue
with a ribbonned bow –
for in a drawer,
next to the Kimono
an expanding meadow of poppy
unwrapped a
yielding more precious
than
Monet, a wildfire
or door
in a field of Vincent’s iris
where
you are. The breeze
to your
back is May to June’s
gentling and the
sweetness
of summer
wine.
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