The Silver Lily

The nights have grown cool again, like the nights

of early spring, and quiet again. Will

speech disturb you? We're

alone now; we have no reason for silence.

Can you see, over the garden—the full moon rises.

I won't see the next full moon.

In spring, when the moon rose, it meant

time was endless. Snowdrops

opened and closed, the clustered

seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts.

White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree.

And in the crook, where the tree divides,

leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight

soft greenish-silver.

We have come too far together toward the end now

to fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain

I know what the end means. And you, who've been with a man—

after the first cries,

doesn't joy, like fear, make no sound?