Moon and Trees Sestina

Mercurial, the temperament of trees
are captured in sonatas of the moon,
their white-barked pale extensions are exposed
reflective, derelict as any sea.
The chalky groves of trunks unstrung, unknown,
in silver spooned collections of the gloom.

Examining the details of the gloom
do we assume this moonlight is for trees?
It finds us too, and mints us in unknown
coins. In tributaries slurred with moon,
where sunken dimes and quarters are exposed
as quickened flounders surfaced on its sea,

or dulcimers with nickel strings exposed.
Abstracted there and played out in the gloom,
in droning tones below the key of C,
refracted with the frequencies of trees.
A song is spilled from upset cups of moon
in staves of minor notes that strike unknown

chords. When juxtaposed beside unknowns,
where phosphorescent halftones are exposed,
there, we’re composed, completed by the moon.
Days only dream of what comes out of gloom,
what glitters through dense canopies of trees,
It splits and teases untried ways to see

dim aspects of its cratered, tranquil sea,
where sirens swim and sailors drift unknown.
We find ourselves there relative to trees,
our stands and twisted boughs that now exposed,
delineate the edges of the gloom
to rise in archipelagos of moon.

As though we know, have waited for this moon,
and floating there, we’re swallowed in its sea.
When drawn into the complicated gloom
where twilight comprehends the vast unknowns,
crepuscular, and circumspect, exposed,
we share the sterling-indigo with trees.

Perhaps we are dark sentiments of moon
expressed in undulations of unknown
shapes, shining for insomniacs to see.
Our pearls clarified and then exposed,
dependent on repeated bouts of gloom
to reach and quiver, not unlike the trees.

Inspecting the Dark

 

Does not a form
of vision bait this hour
while frilled sharks of sleep
slide in between impaired
and deafened ears,
feeding on monsoons of dreams
I am here
breathing in this night of spring
on darkened curb below the plumes
of foliage that offer paper lanterns
of cavalcading lilac-whites,
their fragrant light accompanies
my sack of lonely bones tonight
as I inspect these trees
against that moon,
sit in this obscured
outsider’s room with quiet houses
walled within
the passing pantomime,
standing circumspect
and bricked around the slumber
of their occupants,
playing those lickspittle tricks
of a sober, fixed
existence;
blinded by the slighted hand,
waged and mortgaged
by the soundness
of illusions we expand.