Moon of many lilies


When, in her mystical barque,


The moon of many lilies


Glides across the dream-clad dark,


Her owls in her wake,


Their wings silent as eternity’s




(Though nearby


Clouds of crystal geese


Chime on their snow-spun way)




Out of the rocks


Misted lands


Will rise again


Now that the white-toothed one


Who sat on the throne


Has let slip his staff


Of silver bone


And his recipies


Of gloom


And dread


From his grime-


Grimmed hands


And has slid


Down into the deep




Of the smokened tomb


Of time.


Soon flocks


Of dawn-eyed does will


Drink from the blue spring


As before in the day


When the heron was the rain


And the lion the sun.


Then  on the hill


The coyote will laugh


His translucent laugh;


In the valley


The butterfly


Will flit


To the petal


Of the water lily


To shake


Her orange head


And settle


Into sleep,


Her rainbowed eyelid


Shut in a ring


Of peace


While the moon slips by


On wind-lit




Over the lake


Of the wide sky.


Written around 2002


Photo: Boris Ryaposov /






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