The brook is flooding today,
Water sweeps upon the road,
Flooding light onto lawns and gardens.
All I can see is a flower on the other side.
Reflected in the moving water…
The light is not the Moon.
And the bird singing in the air,
Hidden in the tallest trees,
This music is not the Moon.
And the squirrel running
Across green grass, climbing
Brown rough folds of bark,
This squirrel is not the Moon.
Still, I sit here so close to water—
Suddenly I notice everything seems close,
Tender and wise in its own
Reflected light, hidden in the world,
Yet obvious if the time is ripe…
Each phase of fullness flooding
Like the brook spilling onto road,
Like the blossom spilling fragrance in the garden,
Like bird or squirrel or tree, everything
Has face of the Moon to me—
Gathered in intimate assembly,
Tender and wise and sacred,
Both moving and waiting
As I sit here in deep water.