THE TONE OF THE PACIFIC MOON

THE TONE OF THE PACIFIC MOON

A willow stooped over the waters
and on the branch sang a swallow
a song for the pacific moon.
The morning brought me a boat
and as the eagle watched we sailed from dawn to dusk and the fisherman toiled,
the housewife spread her washing to dry;
birds sought spaces
on dry branches with dried up  twigs.

Far away on another shore
a lone man dropped his fishing rod and stared
vacantly at the ripples.
Herons gathered and gave us a cheering note and I thought I almost saw on
the rippling dome of sky
 you gliding with butterfly wings,
 your parasol held like an air-balloon.

A temple dome rose in view in the sky
and we sailed under the shadow
between the cleft hills.
The craggy hills, scared and scarred with their barrenness
and the bird said it's ok; the way is clear and ahead is a brightness.
On the way back the pacific moon touched the sky, touched the waters, touched the minds,
a gentle tone , a simple word,
the day is done;
 it's night again.