{The unforgettable choreography of an endless summer moon}

I know it’s not you, I know it’s the gushing rivers and starlit fields within me That whisper warm words that smell of fresh bread and smokey trains, That encourage my leaves to unfurl and to grow into every corner I had left empty for years. Grow! Expand! Taste the salt and the sweetness of your own fruit! It calls to me. Lush and dripping with honey, I never knew how ripe I was. Bursting to be plucked and bitten into. Here I am, a lifetime of sowing seeds and now the fields are rolling with fruit and flowers. I know it’s not you But you arrived during harvest season Under a moon swollen with new blood, And you crossed the river of death For me. Beyond the fjord you found my fields And took a bite of the forbidden food… And yet there were no shattered mirrors or knives in tables or mouths full of figs and flies. Just a quiet plume of white smoke catching my gaze, connecting the sky with the ground under my feet. I know it’s not you But you’re interwoven with the peak point of the sun and the highest shrilling of the birds and the top tide of the sea, And I will remember both parts of the same page on the same side of the planet, Looking up to see the same clouds.