A lambent moon in the east tonight,
she is pouring her annointing light across
the garden, painting shadows on the fence
in pansy purple and deepest indigo,
setting the dark cedars somewhere
beyond the fence rustling in the wind.
rivers of starlight, moonlight and shadow
flowing along the frosty grass under the trees,
light tinkle and swaying dance of windbells
from the eaves somewhere above my
head in the richly textured darkness.
Here is the journey's face and its true shape,
its ups and downs, its peaks and valleys,
the winding trail into the bosky hills being
followed by its elderly shapeshifting acolyte,
she who is alone and yet enfolded on this
windy night in September's middling pages.