I watched a drop hurtle down
And pierce the Moon in the centre.
Whipping silver moon-rings
Break the blackness of the lake
And roll back to form a new Moon.
Like platinum Matryoshka dolls.
With every growing ripple
I smile wider
In memory of a
Then there is a silence
Like a pause after this line
And a bird shoots through the Moon
On the lake
While the ripples stretch themselves
To reach the cool, spectral love
Of the White mirror, to me.
I sit on a rock
Cushioned by the moss
And bend forward
To gather the harp tunes
Of reflected reflections.
In ten fingers of drenched music
I saw the silver slivers
Of the distant orb.