Evening

A silver moonbeam traces the outline of a path

as it stops to rest, to ruminate upon a moss-covered bench

beside the mirror that draws reflection into its depth

broken only by the gentle ripple of a waterfall

slipping almost silently to join a whitened lily

that floats, frightened by darkness, upon the surface

trying to catch the lingering perfume of creamy jasmine

that wafts on the breeze . . . and is gone . . .

like the dreamy brush of a feathery moth’s wing

or a silken kiss upon a rose-petal cheek,

and in the secluded shadows of sleeping trees

the fireflies wink in and out of existence.

May 6, 2001