Satiny moons shine out and summon memory:
an egret’s luminous wing, your dinghy’s sail.
Moon plant, lunaria rediviva,
a weed unplanned, with persistent roots.
Peel off the shell and find transparent screens,
the filmy parchment for suibokuga,
a Japanese art: brush dipped in suma ink
and stroked so that no wrong line
could cut through. No second chances.
I hear moons ring like silver dollars
stamped with a rare promise:
In God We Trust. Airy moons endure,
stripped to their naked skins and vulnerable,
though still intact. Each a blank screen. For hope.