Summer days

Last night a full moon
              futile in the dark sky
casting a funnel of dead light
             across the face of the earth
there is more beauty in a honeycomb
             or in a rose culled from the garden

chains of words
             and words that evolve
words spoken on water
             or uttered on dry land
and the moon is pointless
             my lungs sifting the cold morning air
your breath mingling with mine
             our bodies taking what pleasure
there is to be taken
             from the moment

beneath our feet in autumn
             a carpet of dry leaves
but now the ground is strewn
             with cherry blossom
which twists and turns
             in the whirling wind

before being laid to rest
             chains of words
and the fire that made us
             will unmake our bones
will silence our tongues
             and make dust of our dreams
misbegotten moon
             the rose has more sense

John Lyons