I WILL write of moonlight and roses
Poet in prayer glances out bedroom window.
Wonder catches in her throat.
Beyond a tall pine silhouetted against
navy blue sky and black mirror named Lake Huron,
she beholds full lunar splendor, reflection an undisturbed
line on the water, pointing to shore and to her.
She’s only seven. No one has told her about clichés.
But knowing from her own eyes that
Beauty is Truth,
she hand prints her joy on school paper—
the kind with heavy lines for capitals
and light ones for lower-case:
See the moon shining
Shining on the sea
See the moon shining
Shining on me.
If you cannot see the moon
Shining on the sea
Then you surely cannot see
The moon that shines on me.
“Lights out, my love,” says Mom. “Get plenty of rest.
In the morning you’ll help me plant roses.”
Azimuth 