Knowledge of stars does not float on the ocean
nor the underbelly of a shark
sneering up at the shadows of seals

The rabbit moon is unbolted
as it scatters the hidden path
in plain view of winter’s first ripples.

Sunrise is not a matter of intuition,
whether pale a lemon juice stain on a white shirt
or cruel as a mosquito trapped in amber
light – a shimmering hardness lost
and petrified in the forgotten forests.

The harvest moon bolts the summer
for a smattering of frost along a widening path
leading inexorably toward another year’s end.

Sunset is not a matter of faith,
whether salvation is a magma flow
fifty miles below or a solar flair 50 million miles above
– a quivering softness of song
or the ethereal energy of the unexpected.

Spring will come soon
like the revelation that knowledge is a body, not a ghost
a fire, not a glow
a slow setting into the dark
a regal rise from the dark
a window on the sky and heart,
a divine apocalypse
intuited from the word
deduced from the the body
and revealed in the last memory of the moonlight.

Don’t ask me for proof in matters of faith
unless you want a hearty laugh and a silly poem.