The pond is a perfect mirror
spreading its cloak to catch
the sky’s falling image.
As a woman will spread her skirt
while the children shake
apples down from the tree.
The stars plop gently into the water
plinking like frogsong,
little silver specks of light.
And yet somehow the sky
looks no dimmer —
still they shine, singing
their slow whirling chant,
while we, caught in the dark line
between heaven and earth,
breathe the soft wind
that wanders from the water
smelling like stargleam.
