25.

Every night,
in the field by her house
she dined with the moon
as her only companion

excepting the nights
when the moon was new
or the sky cloud-smothered
and then the rain
became her soup
and her eyes turned
dull and starless.

But when her friend
was at his fattest,
the food did flow
and it was difficult to say
where her skin began
and where the moonlight ended.

She ate for two
during Harvest Moon
to keep from feeling lonely,
because for all his brightness,
her mate was tongueless,
and the land he lit
was desolate-cold.

Until this year,
this month,
this phase,
this day,
this holy,
white-washed
hour--

When over the hill
there came a person,
half-starved by his search
for love and knowledge,
as near to bitter as
the cloves he gnashed.

They were not young--
did you think they would be?--
for one shouldn't put youth
in such Gothic settings,
as the young and beautiful
are not keen on solitude
or so likely to don the eccentric's hat.

But both were beautiful
in the then and there,
gobsmacked and moonstruck
and dumb with shyness,
each sore afraid,
separated by nothing
but a table's bounty.

He spoke.
She smiled.

He spoke again

while the moon laid low
'round his head
like a lantern, a halo,
a shimmering egg.

Her smile cracked,
breaking up the crickets'
one-note sonata.
She patted the seat next to her.
He took the hint.

And once they'd finally
finished their feast
and upon the moment
when the man did reach
to bring her lips toward his,

all the moonlight she'd swallowed
in the harvest of years
bloomed from the kiss
as lilies-of-the-valley.

And from that day on,
they took their meals
beneath a yellow sun
(or a yellower umbrella)
and the lilies were their children,
playing at their feet

tossing in a sea
of their tranquil dreams,
while the moon looked on
from a wider berth,
perpetually full,
sated.