two moon-white moths
collided in mid-flight and fell into
the dark mind that waits for me, so patiently.
It could have been us, my beautiful Lover –
it might have been you and I.
Yes, it must have been us –
what else could have been so intimate,
so compelling, embroidered with pale embers
of ancient stars and all their fading light?
Between us now, nothing is spoken –
what need have we for words?
Although there are thousands of ways
to touch one’s lover, some secrets
here shall remain untold.
In the language of this world
some say there is a Harbor in the Heart,
yet we have a sea of light within our one-heart
no ship conceived by man has ever sailed.
It’s there that we’ll surrender,
and there we both shall drown.
With each successive breath
the air around us shimmers and ripples
in an expanding luminosity – the sound
within our ears now grown oceanic.
Is this home?
Do we all fall home?
Somehow, we were born into this time,
our forms emerged from a dazzling dark,
ready to magnify the radiance of our source.
See — just one bright beam of clear white light
travels on through endless space as you and I.
From the point of view of the silent witness,
nothing happened in that night, and yet
our incandescent wings now navigate
the solar debris with a mysterious
motion that spawns an ecstasy
within our twining hearts.
It is here, in the midst
of this vast starry presence,
that we seem to find ourselves.
We dance like moths, moon-white moths,
our fluttering wings making wave-like motions,
leaving milky-white swaths of star-shine’s
lustrous flotsam in our scintillating wake.
Sky watchers are confounded,
and then fall back to sleep.
Everyone falls back to sleep,
yet we remain awake, awake in the dark,
our fading light illuminating the secret place
where night moths are born to justify the darkness.
In this way, our liquid light drips into the night
and grants the waking world the power to exist.
It is not our world, it never was.
You softly sigh to me across our pillow,
and when our teary eyes meet, we know something
more true than sleep, brighter than light itself,
though it is dark, and these forms are dying.
We do not fear this death –
we must not — for it is nothing,
only a movement of moth-like wings,
falling now into an enormous darkness,
swept into the black-lacquer light.