Above the tower — a lone, twice sized moon.
On the cold river passing night filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.
Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden…All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in it’s light.
The Living Room 